BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

'SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THENfCHT" 


-I 

] 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


<E  LIBRARY 
.  OF 


BY   BEATRICE  HARRADEN. 


Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night. 

Authorized    American    Edition,      l6mo;    cloth,    $1.00; 
paper,  50c. 

"  There  is  a  wealth  of  philosophy,  humor,  and  pathos 
in  this  little  tale,  and  it  is  told  so  simply  that  one  feels  as 
if  he  were  a  part  of  it,  somehow.  So  truly  are  the  human 
heartstrings  struck  that  he  must  be  beyond  redemption 
whose  inner  self  does  not  vibrate  in  sympathy  many  times, 
as  the  pages  are  turned.  .  .  .  There  is  not  a  dull  page 
it  is  one  book  in  ten  thousand  ;  you  should  read 
it." — Boston  limes. 


In  Varying  Moods. 

ri;_;ht     American      Kdition.        161110 ;     (doth,     $1.00; 
paper,    50  cent-. 


G.   P    PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW     YORK     AND     LONDON 


Hn  Waiting  flfeoobe 


BY 


BEATRICE   HARRADEN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE   NIGHT,"  HTC. 


AMERICAN  COPYRIGHT  EDITION 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW   YORK  LONDON 

27  West  Twenty-third  Street  =4  Bedford  Street,  Strand 

Ube  ftnicfeerbocfeet  (press 

1894 


COPYRIGHT,   1894 
BV 

C.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Electrotypcd.  Print<.<!  an«]  Boun.l  by 

-be  *nfchcrbocftcr  prces,  IHcw  i 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


o5 


CONTENTS. 


At  the  Green  Dragon  :  An  Episode — 
I. — Hieronymus  Comes    . 
II. — Hieronymus  Stays     . 
III.— The  Primary  Glory  . 
IV. — The  Making  of  the  Pastry 
V. — Pastry  and  Personal  Monarchy 
VI. — The  Exciseman's  Library 
VII. — Auntie  Lloyd  Protests     . 
VIII. — The  Distance  Grows 
IX. — David  Laments  .... 
X. — Hieronymus  Speaks  . 
XL — Hieronymus  Goes 
The  Painter  and  his  Picture 
The  Umbrella-Mender  :  A  Study 
The  Bird  on  its  Journey 
The  Clockmaker  and  his  Wife    . 
Sorrow  and  Joy  :  An  Allegory  . 
An  Idyl  of  London        .... 


3 

12 

23 
36 

43 
55 
63 
69 

79 

89 

98 

107 

119 

155 
191 

237 
255 


LIBRARY 


PREFACE  TO  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


IT  is  some  years  ago  since  I  saw  in  a  little 
church  in  Sussex  a  fragment  of  an  old 
stained-glass  window  representing  God  the 
Father  supporting  on  the  cross  the  arms  of 
God  the  Son.  I  think  it  dated  back  to  the 
twelfth  century.  I  remember  that  when  I 
saw  it,  the  idea  of  the  "  Painter  and  His  Pic- 
ture "  flashed  across  my  mind.  Strangely 
enough,  it  was  in  the  parlour  of  the  Green 
Dragon,  many  years  afterwards,  that  I  wrote 
the  "  Painter  and  His  Picture."  It  is  very 
curious  how  those  old  memories  will  assert 

V 


vi  PREFACE. 

themselves  when  one   is  thinking  <»f  othei 
things  in  quite  other  surroundings. 

This  was  the  case  with  the  "  Umbrella- 
Mender."  The  lad  always  interested  me, 
but  one  day  when  I  was  full  of  other 
thoughts,  he  came  before  my  mind's  eye  so 
vividly  that  there  was  no  resisting  his  pres- 
ence, and  I  wrote  what  I  felt  to  be  his 
record. 

And  so  it  was  with  the  old  man  and  the 
young  girl  in  the  "  National  Gallery."  1 
saw  them  together  there  and  noted  theii 
individualities.  A  long  time  afterwards, 
whilst  I  was  strolling  along  the  Somer 
shire  lanes,  these  two  people  took  possession 
of  my  mind,  and  there  was  no  escape  from 
them  until  I  had  written  what  I  chose  to 
believe  was  their  story. 

I  found  the  clockmaker  and  his  wife  in  a 


PREFACE.  vii 

Somersetshire  village  :  one  of  the  quaintest 
and  prettiest  villages  in  England.  The  little 
old  lady  was  a  remarkable  personality,  and  I 
spent  many  pleasant  hours  with  her.  I  was 
never  able  to  forget  her  pathetic  face,  and 
the  painful  constraint  of  her  manner.  Some- 
thing had  "  frozen  the  genial  current  of  her 
soul."  So  one  day,  in  Cannes,  I  think,  I 
began  to  ease  my  heart  of  her,  and  set  to 
work  to  construe  a  history  about  her,  which 
has  in  it  more  truth  than  fiction.  And,  in- 
deed, that  may  be  said  of  most  of  the  stories 
in  this  little  book. 

The  "  Green  Dragon  "  was  written  in  Men- 
tone,  amongst  the  olive  trees.  As  I  now 
write,  the  landlady  of  the  Green  Dragon 
sends  me  a  box  of  daffodils  and  asks  if  I 
have  yet  invented  a  tale  about  my  favourite 
inn.     I  dare  not  tell  her  that  I  have  already 


V11I 


PREFA  ( '£. 


dune  so,  for  I  feci  quite  sure  that  she  would 
never  forgive  mc  for  speaking  disrespectfully 
of  the  Shropshire  crumpets  and  the  rum  in 
the  tea. 


U$C  cS&^Ct/tffc&sijCtjdft 


e/*^. 


April  2,  1894. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON 

AN  EPISODE 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HIERONYMUS    COMES. 

FT  was  a  pouring  September  evening  when  a 
stranger  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  Crown 
Inn.  Old  Mrs.  Howells  saw  that  he  carried  a 
portmanteau  in  his  hand. 

"  If  it  's  a  bedroom  you  want,"  she  said,  "  I 
can't  be  bothered  with  you.  What  with  brewing 
the  beer  and  cleaning  the  brass,  I  've  more  than 
I  can  manage.     I  'm  that  tired  !  " 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  the  stranger,  patheti- 
cally. 

"  Go  over  the  way  to  the  Green  Dragon," 
suggested  Mrs.  Howells.    "  Mrs.  Benbow  may  be 


4  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

able  to  put  yon  up.     lint  what  with  the  brewing 
and  the  (leaning,  I  can't  do  with  yon." 

The  stranger  stepped  across   the   road    to   the 

Green  Dragon.     He  tapped  at  the  door  ;  and  a 

cheery  little  woman  made  her  appearance.     She 

carrying  what  they  call  in  Shropshire  a  devil 

of  hot  beer.     It  smelt  good. 

"Good  evening,  ma'am,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  I  an  you  house  me  for  the  night  ?  The  hostess 
of  the  Crown  Inn  has  turned  me  away.  Hut  you 
surely  will  not  do  the  same  ?  You  observe  what 
a  bad  (old  I  have." 

Mrs.  Benbow  glanced  sharply  at  the  strai 
She  had  not  kept  the  Green  Dragon  for  ten 
years  without  learning  something  about  char- 
acter ;  and  to-night  she  was  particularly  on  her 
guard,  for  her  husband  had  gone  to  stay  for  two 
days  with  some  relative  in  Shrewsbury,  so  that 
Mrs.  Benbow  and  old  John  of  the  wooden  leg, 
called  Dot  and  carry  one,  were  left  as  sole  guard- 
ians of  the  little  wayside  public-house. 

"  It  is  not  very  convenient  for  me  to  take  you 
in,"  she  said. 


AT  THE    GREEN  DRAGON.  5 

"  And  it  would  not  be  very  convenient  for  me 
to  be  shut  out,"  he  replied.  "  Besides  which,  I 
have  had  a  whiff  of  that  hot  beer." 

At  that  momenta  voice  from  the  kitchen  cried 
impatiently  :  "  Here,  missus  !  where  be  that  beer 
of  your'n  ?     I  be  feeling  quite  faint-like  !  " 

"  As  though  he  could  call  out  like  that  if  he 
was  faint  ? "  laughed  Mrs.  Benbow,  running  off 
into  the  kitchen. 

When  she  returned,  she  found  the  stranger 
seated  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  for  me  ?  " 
he  asked,  patiently. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  genial  manner. 
Mrs.  Benbow  was  conquered. 

"  I  propose  to  fry  some  eggs  and  bacon  for 
your  supper,"  she  said,  cheerily.  "  And  then  I 
propose  to  make  your  bedroom  ready." 

"  Sensible  woman  !  "  he  said,  as  he  followed 
her  into  the  parlour,  where  a  fire  was  burning 
brightly.  He  threw  himself  into  the  easy-chair, 
and  immediately  experienced  that  sensation  of 
repose  and  thankfulness  which   comes  over  us 


6  IN   VAN  V 7 A Y7   MOODS. 

when  we  have  found  a  haven.  There  he  rested, 
content  with  himself  and  his  surroundings.  The 
tire  lit  up  his  face,  and  showed  him  to  be  a  man 
of  about  forty   years. 

There  was  nothing  specially  remarkable  about 
him.  The  face  in  repose  was  sad  and  thought- 
ful ;  and  yet  when  he  discovered  a  yellow  cat 
sleeping  under  the  table,  he  smiled  as  though 
some  great  pleasure  had  come  into  his  life. 

"  Come  along,  little  comrade  !  "  he  said,  as  he 
captured  her.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  so 
frankly,  that  the  stranger  was  much  impressed. 
"  Why,  I  do  believe  you  are  a  dog  undergoing  a 
cat  incarnation,"  he  continued.  "What  quali- 
ties did  you  lack  when  you  were  a  dog,  I  won- 
der ?  Perhaps  you  did  not  steal  sufficiently  well: 
perhaps  you  had  not  cultivated  restfulness.  And 
your  name  ?  Your  name  shall  be  Gamboge.  I 
think  that  is  a  suitable  appellation  for  you  :  cer- 
tainly more  suitable  than  most  of  the  names  thrust 
upon  unoffending  humanity.  My  own  name  for 
instance,  Hieronymus  !  Ah,  you  may  well  mew  ! 
t  are  a  thoroughly  sensible  creature." 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  7 

So  ke  amused  himself  until  Mrs.  Benbow  came 
with  his  supper.  Then  he  pointed  to  the  cat, 
and  said  quietly  : 

"  That  is  a  very  companionable  dog  of  yours." 

Mrs.  Benbow  darted  a  look  of  suspicion  at  the 
stranger.  "  We  call  that  a  cat  in  Shropshire,"  she 
said,  beginning  to  regret  that  she  had  agreed  to 
house  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  no  doubt  you  are  partially  right,"  said 
the  stranger,  solemnly  ;  "  but,  at  the  same  time, 
you  are  partially  wrong.  To  use  the  language  of 
the  Theosophists " 

Mrs.  Benbow  interrupted  him. 

"  Eat  your  supper  whilst  it  is  hot,"  she  said, 
"  then  perhaps  you  '11  feel  better.  Your  cold  is 
rather  heavy  in  your  head,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

He  laughed  good-temperedly,  and  smiled  at 
her  as  though  to  reassure  her  that  he  was  quite 
in  his  right  senses  ;  and  then,  without  further 
discussion,  he  began  to  make  short  work  of  the 
fried  eggs  and  bacon.  Gamboge,  sitting  quietly 
by  the  fireside,  scorned  to  beg  ;  she  preferred  to 
steal.     That  is  a  way  some  people  have. 


8  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

The  stranger  finished  his  supper,  and  lit  his 
pipe.  Once  or  twice  he  began  to  doze.  The 
first  time  he  \v;is  aroused  by  Gamboge,  who  had 
jumped  on  to  the  table,  and  was  seeking  what 
she  might  devour. 

"Ah,  Gamboge,"  he  said,  sleepily,  "I  am 
sorry  I  have  not  left  anything  appetising  for 
you.     I  was  so  hungry.     Pray  excuse." 

Then  he  dozed  off  again.  The  second  time 
he  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  singing.  He 
caught  the  words  of  the  chorus  : 


"  I  '11  gaily  sing  from  day  to  day, 
And  do  the  best  I  can  ; 
If  sorrows  meet  me  on  the  way, 
I  '11  bear  them  like  a  man." 


"  An  excellent  resolution,"  murmured  the 
stranger,  becoming  drowsy  once  more.  "  Only 
I  wish  they'd  kept  their  determinations  to  them- 
selves." 

The  third  time  he  was  disturbed  by  the  sound 
of  angry  voices.  There  was  some  quarrelling 
going  on   in  the  kitchen  of  the  Green  Dragon 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  9 

The  voices  became  louder.  There  was  a  clatter 
of  stools  and  a  crash  of  glasses. 

'  You're  a  pack  of  lying  gipsies  !  "  sang  out 
some  one.  "  You  know  well  you  did  n't  pay  the 
missus  !  " 

"  Go  for  him  !  cro  for  him  !  "  was  the  cry. 

Then  the  parlour  door  was  flung  open,  and 
Mrs.  Benbow  rushed  in.  "  Oh,"  she  cried, 
"  these  gipsy  men  are  killing  the  carpenter!  " 

Hieronymus  Howard  rushed  into  the  kitchen, 
and  threw  himself  into  the  midst  of  the  con- 
test. Three  powerful  tramps  were  kicking 
a  figure  prostrate  on  the  ground.  One  other 
man,  Mr.  Greaves,  the  blacksmith,  was  trying 
in  vain  to  defend  his  comrade.  He  had  no 
chance  against  these  gipsy  fellows,  and  though 
he  fought  like  a  lion,  his  strength  was,  of 
course,  nothing  against  theirs.  Old  John  of 
the  one  leg  had  been  knocked  over,  and  was 
picking  himself  up  with  difficulty.  Everything 
depended  on  the  promptness  of  the  stranger. 
He  was  nothing  of  a  warrior,  this  Hieronymus 
Howard  :    he  was   just    a    quiet    student,    who 


IO 


W    VARYING  MOODS. 


knew  how  to  tussle  with  ('.reck  roots  rather  than 
with  English  tramps.  But  he  threw  himself  upon 
the  gipsies,  fought  hand  to  hand  with  them, 
was  blinded  with  blows,  nearly  trampled  be 
neath  their  feet,  all  but  crushed  against  the  wall. 
Now  he  thrust  them  back.  Now  they  pressed 
on  him  afresh.  Now  the  blacksmith,  with  des- 
perate effort,  attacked  them  again.  Now  the 
carpenter,  bruised  and  battered,  but  wild  for 
revenge,  dragged  himself  from  the  floor,  and 
aimed  a  blow    at   the   third  gipsy's  head.     He 

fell. 

Then  after  a  short,  sharp  contest,  the  two 
other  gipsies  were  driven  to  the  door,  which 
Mrs.  Benbow  had  opened  wide,  and  were  thrust 
out.     The  door  was  bolted  safely. 

But  they  had  bolted  one  gipsy  in  with  them. 
When  they  returned  to  the  kitchen,  they  found 
him  waiting  for  them.  He  had  recovered  him- 
self. 

Mrs.  Benbow  raised  a  cry  of  terror.  She  had 
thought  herself  safe  in  her  little  castle.  The 
carpenter  and  the  blacksmith  were  past  fighting. 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  ti 

Hieronymus  Howard  gazed  placidly  at  the  great 
tramp. 

"  I  am  sorry  we  had  forgotten  you,"  he  said, 
courteously.  "  Perhaps  you  will  oblige  us  by 
following  your  comrades.  I  will  open  the  door 
for  you.  I  think  we  are  all  rather  tired — are  n't 
we  ?     So  perhaps  you  will  go  at  once." 

The  man  gazed  sheepishly  at  him,  and  then 
followed  him.  Hieronymus  Howard  opened  the 
door. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,"  he  said. 

And  the  gipsy  passed  out  without  a  word. 

"Well  now,"  said  Hieronymus,  as  he  drew 
the  bolt,  "  that  is  the  end  of  that." 

Then  he  hastened  into  the  parlour.  Mrs. 
Benbow  hurried  after  him,  and  was  just  in  time 
to  break  his  fall.     He  had  swooned  away. 


CHAPTER  II. 

HIERONYMUS    STAYS. 

LJIERONYMUS    HOWARD    had    only  in- 
tended   to  pass  one  night   at   the    Green 
Dragon.       But    his    sharp   encounter   with    the 
gipsies  altered  his  plans.     He  was  battered  and 
bruised  and  thoroughly   shaken,  and   quite  un- 
able to  do  anything  else  except  rest  in  the  arm- 
chair  and    converse    with    Gamboge,   who  had 
attached  herself  to  him,  and  evidently  appreci- 
ated her  companionship.     His  right  hand    i 
badly  sprained.     Mrs.  Benbow  looked  after  him 
most  tenderly,  bemoaning  all   the   time  that    he 
should    be    in    such    a   plight    because    of    her. 
There  was  nothing  that  she   was   nut    willing  to 
do  for  him  ;  it  was  a  long  time  sin<  e   Hi  irony* 
mus    Howard    had    been  so   petted   and  spoilt. 
Mrs.    Benbow   treated   ever)    one  like  a  young 

12 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  13 

child  that  needed  to  be  taken  care  of.  The  very 
men  who  came  to  drink  her  famous  ale  were 
under  her  strict  motherly  authority. 

"  There  now,  Mr.  Andrew,  that 's  enough  for 
ye,"  she  would  say  ;  "  not  another  glass  to- 
night. No,  no,  John  Curtis ;  get  you  gone 
home.  You  '11  not  coax  another  half-pint  out 
of  me." 

She  was  generally  obeyed  :  even  Hieronymus 
Howard,  who  refused  rather  peevishly  to  take  a 
third  cup  of  beef-tea,  found  himself  obliged  to 
comply.  When  she  told  him  to  lie  on  the  sofa, 
he  did  so  without  a  murmur.  When  she  told 
him  to  get  up  and  take  his  dinner  whilst  it  was 
still  hot,  he  obeyed  like  a  well-trained  child. 
She  cut  his  food  and  then  took  the  knife  away. 

'  You  must  n't  try  to  use  your  right  hand," 
she  said,  sternly.  "  Put  it  back  in  the  sling  at 
once." 

Hieronymus  obeyed.  Her  kind  tyranny 
pleased  and  amused  him,  and  he  was  not  at  all 
sorry  to  go  on  staying  at  the  Green  Dragon. 
He  was  really  on  his  way  to  visit  some  friends 


i4  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

just  on  the  border  between  Shropshire  and 
Wales,  to  form  one  of  a  large  house-party,  con- 
sisting  of  people  both  interesting  and  intellect- 
ual ;  qualities,  by  the  way,  not  necessarily  in- 
separable. But  he  was  just  at  the  time  needing 
quiet  of  mind,  and  he  promised  himself  some 
really  peaceful  hours  in  this  little  Shropshire 
village,  with  its  hills,  some  of  them  bare,  and 
others  girt  with  a  belt  of  trees,  and  the  brook 
gurgling  past  the  wayside  inn.  He  was  tired, 
and  here  he  would  find  rest.  The  only  vexa- 
tious part  was  that  he  had  hurt  his  hand.  But 
for  this  mishap,  he  would  have  been  quite  con- 
tent. 

He  told  this  to  Mr.  Benbow,  who  returned 
that  afternoon,  and  who  expressed  his  regret  at 
the  whole  occurrence. 

"  Oh,  I  am  well  satisfied  here,"  said  Hierony- 
mus,  cheerily.  "  Your  little  wife  is  a  capital  host- 
ess: somewhat  of  the  tyrant,  you  know.  Still  one 
likes  that  ;  until  one  gets  to  the  fourth  cup  of 
beef-tea  !  And  she  is  an  excellent  cook,  and  the 
Green  Dragon  is  most  comfortable.     I  've  noth- 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  15 

ing  to  complain  of,  except  my  hand.  That  is 
a  nuisance,  for  I  wanted  to  do  some  writing.  I 
suppose  there  is  no  one  here  who  could  write 
for  me." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Benbow,  "perhaps  the 
missus  can.  She  can  do  most  things.  She  's 
real  clever." 

Mrs.  Benbow  being  consulted  on  this  matter, 
confessed  that  she  could  not  do  much  in  that 
line. 

"  I  used  to  spell  pretty  well  once,"  she  said, 
brightly  ;  "  but  the  brewing  and  the  scouring 
and  the  looking  after  other  things  have  knocked 
all  that  out  of  me." 

'  You  wrote  to  me  finely  when  I  was  away," 
her  husband  said.  He  was  a  quiet  fellow,  and 
proud  of  his  little  wife,  and  he  liked  people  to 
know  how  capable  she  was. 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  n't  over-particular,  Ben, 
bless  you,"  she  answered,  laughing,  and  running 
away  to  her  many  duties.  Then  she  returned  to 
tell  Hieronymus  that  there  was  a  splendid  fire  in 
the  kitchen,  and  that  he  was  to  go  and  sit  there. 


16  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

"  I  'm  busy  doing  the  washing  in  the  back- 
yard," she  said.  "  Ben  has  gone  to  look  after 
the  sheep.  Perhaps  you  '11  give  an  eye  to  the 
door,  and  serve  out  the  ale.  It  would  help  me 
mighty.  I  'm  rather  pressed  for  time  to-day. 
We  shall  brew  to-morrow,  and  I  must  get  the 
washing  done  this  afternoon." 

She  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would  obey, 
and  of  course  he  did.  He  transferred  himself,  his 
pipe,  and  his  book  to  the  front  kitchen,  and  pre- 
pared for  customers.  Hieronymus  Howard  had 
once  been  an  ambitious  man,  but  never  before 
had  he  been  seized  by  such  an  overwhelming 
aspiration  as  now  possessed  him — to  serve  out 
the  Green  Dragon  ale  ! 

"  If  only  some  one  would  come  !  "  he  said  to 
himself  scores  of  times. 

No  one  came.  Hieronymus,  becoming  im- 
patient, sprang  up  from  his  chair  and  gazed 
anxiously  out  of  the  window,  just  in  time  to  see 
three  men  stroll  into  the  opposite  inn. 

"  Confound  them  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  why  don't 
they  come  here  ? " 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  17 

The  next  moment,  four  riders  stopped  at  the 
rival  public-house,  and  old  Mrs.  Howells  hurried 
out  to  them,  as  though  to  prevent  any  possibility 
of  them  slipping  across  to  the  other  side  of  the 
road. 

This  was  almost  more  than  Hieronymus  could 
bear  quietly.  He  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
opening  the  Green  Dragon  door  and  advertising 
in  a  loud  voice  the. manifold  virtues  of  Mrs.  Ben- 
bow's  ale  and  spirits.  But  he  recollected  in  time 
that  even  wayside  inns  have  their  fixed  code  of 
etiquette,  and  that  nothing  remained  for  him 
but  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience.  He  was 
rewarded  :  in  a  few  minutes  a  procession  of 
wagons  filed  slowly  past  the  Green  Dragon  ;  he 
counted  ten  horses  and  five  men.  Would  they 
stop  ?  Hieronymus  waited  in  breathless  excite- 
ment. Yes,  they  did  stop,  and  four  of  the 
drivers  came  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Where  is  the  fifth  ? "  asked  Hieronymus, 
sharply,  having  a  keen  eye  to  business. 

"  He  be  minding  the  horses,"  they  answered, 
looking  at  him  curiously.       But  they  seemed  to 


1 8  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

take  it  for  granted  that  he  was  there  to  serve 
them,  and  they  leaned  back  luxuriously  in  the 
great  oak  settle,  whilst  Hieronymus  poured  out 
the  beer,  and  received  in  exchange  some  grimy 
coppers. 

After  they  had  gone  the  fifth  man  came  to 
have  his  share  of  the  refreshment  ;  and  then  fol- 
lowed a  long  pause,  which  seemed  to  Hierony- 
mus like  whole  centuries. 

"  It  was  during  a  lengthened  period  like  this," 
he  remarked  to  himself,  as  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  kitchen,  "  yes,  it  was  during  infinite- 
time  like  this  that  the  rugged  rocks  became 
wave-worn  pebbles  !  " 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet. 

"  It  is  a  rider,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  have  to  go 
Hit  to  him." 

He  hastened  to  the  door,  and  saw  a  young 
.voman  on  a  great  white  horse.  She  carried  a 
.narket  basket  on  her  arm.  She  wore  no  riding- 
nabit,  but  was  just  dressed  in  the  ordinary  way 
There  was  nothing  picturesque  about  her  appear- 
.nce,  but  Hieronymus  thought  her  face  looked 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  19 

interesting.  She  glanced  at  him,  as  though  she 
wondered  what  he  could  possibly  be  doing  at 
the  Green  Dragon. 

"  Well,  and  what  may  I  do  for  you  ?  "  he  asked. 
He  did  not  quite  like  to  say,  "  What  may  I  bring 
for  you  ?  "  He  left  her  to  decide  that  matter. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Benbow,"  she  said. 

"  She  is  busy  doing  the  washing,"  he  answered. 
"  But  I  will  go  and  tell  her,  if  you  will  kindly 
detain  any  customer  who  may  chance  to  pass 
by." 

He  hurried  away,  and  came  back  with  the 
answer  that  Mrs.  Benbow  would  be  out  in  a 
minute. 

"  Thank  you,"  the  young  woman  said,  quietly. 
Then  she  added  :  "  You  have  hurt  your  arm,  I 
see." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  "  it  is  a  great  nuisance. 
I  cannot  write.  I  have  been  wondering  whether 
I  could  get  any  one  to  write  for  me.  Do  you 
know  of  any  one  ? " 

"  No,"  she  said,  bitterly  ;  "  we  don't  write 
here.      We   make   butter   and  cheese,   and   we, 


20  JN  VARYING  MOODS. 

fatten  up  our  poultry,  and  then  we  goto  market 
and  sell  our  butter,  <  heese,  and  poultry." 

"  Well,"  said  Hieronymus,  '*  and  why  shouldn't 
you  ? " 

He  looked  up  at  her,  and  saw  what  a  discon- 
tented expression  had  come  over  her  young 
face. 

She  took  no  notice  of  his  interruption,  but 
just  switched  the  horse's  ears  with  the  end  of 
her  whip. 

"  That  is  what  we  do  year  after  year,"  she 
continued,  "  until  I  suppose  we  have  become  so 
dull  that  we  don't  care  to  do  anything  else.  That 
is  what  we  have  come  into  the  world  for  :  to 
make  butter  and  cheese,  and  fatten  up  our 
poultry,  and  go  to  market." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  and  we  all  have  to  do 
it  in  some  form  or  other.  We  all  go  to  market 
to  sell  our  goods,  whether  they  be  brains,  or 
practical  common-sense  (which  often,  you  know, 
has  nothing  to  do  with  brains),  or  butter,  or 
poultry.  Now  I  don't  know,  of  course,  what  you 
have  in  your  basket  ;  but  supposing  you  have 


AT  THE   GREEN  DRAGON.  21 

eggs,  which  you  are  taking  to  market.  Well,  you 
are  precisely  in  the  same  condition  as  the  poet 
who  is  on  his  way  to  a  publisher's,  carrying  a 
new  poem  in  his  breast-pocket.  And  yet  there 
is  a  difference." 

"  Of  course  there  is,"  she  jerked  out  scorn- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  difference,"  he  continued, 
placidly  ;  "  it  is  this  :  you  will  return  without 
those  pegs,  but  the  poet  will  come  back  still 
carrying  his  poem  in  his  breast  pocket  !  " 

Then  he  laughed  at  his  own  remark. 

"  That  is  how  things  go  in  the  great  world, 
you  know,"  he  said.  "  Out  in  the  great  world 
there  is  an  odd  way  of  settling  matters.  Still 
they  must  be  settled  somehow  or  other  !  " 

"  Out  in  the  world  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  That 
is  where  I  long  to  go." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  don't  you  ?  "  he  replied. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Benbow  came  running 
out. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  Miss 
Hammond,"  she  said  to  the  young  girl  ;  "  but 


22  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

what  with  the  washing  and  the  making  ready 
for  the  brewing  to-morrow,  I  don't  know  where 
to  turn." 

Then  followed  a  series  of  messages  to  which 
Ilieronymus  paid  no  attention.  And  then 
Miss  Hammond  cracked  her  whip,  waved  her 
greetings  with  it,  and  the  old  white  horse  trotted 
away. 

"  And  who  is  the  rider  of  the  horse  ? "  asked 
Hieronymus. 

"  Oh,  she  is  Farmer  Hammond's  daughter," 
said  Mrs.  Benbow.  "Her  name  is  Joan.  She 
is  an  odd  girl,  different  from  the  other  girls 
here.  They  say  she  is  quite  a  scholar  too. 
Why,  she  would  be  the  one  to  write  for  you. 
The  very  one,  of  course  !     I  '11  call  to  her." 

But  by  that  time  the  old  white  horse  was  out 
of  sight. 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE    PRIMARY    GLORY. 


'"THE  next  day  at  the  Green  Dragon  was  a  busy 
one.  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Benbow  were  up  be- 
times, banging  casks  about  in  the  cellar.  When 
Hieronymus  Howard  came  down  to  breakfast, 
he  found  that  they  had  brought  three  great  bar- 
rels into  the  kitchen,  and  that  one  was  already 
half  full  of  some  horrible  brown  liquid,  under- 
going the  process  of  fermentation.  He  felt 
himself  much  aggrieved  that  he  was  unable  to 
contribute  his  share  of  work  to  the  proceedings. 
It  was  but  little  comfort  to  him  that  he  was 
again  allowed  to  attend  to  the  customers.  The 
pouring  out  of  the  beer  had  lost  its  charm  for 


him. 


"  It  is  a  secondary  glory  to  pour  out  the  beer," 
he  grumbled.  "  I  aspire  to  the  primary  glory  of 
helping  to  make  the  beer." 

23 


24  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

Mrs.  Benbow  was  heaping  on  the  coal  in  the 
furnace.  She  turned  round  and  looked  at  the 
disconsolate  figure. 

"There  is  one  thing  you  might  do,"  she  said. 
"  I  've  not  half  enough  barm.  There  arc  two 
or  three  places  where  you  might  call  for  some; 
and  between  them  all,  perhaps  you  '11  get 
enough." 

She  then  mentioned  three  houses,  Farmer 
Hammond's  being  amongst  the  number. 

"  Very  likely  the  Hammonds  would  oblige 
us,"  she  said.  "They  are  neighbourly  folk. 
They  live  at  the  Malt-House  Farm,  two  miles 
off.  You  can't  carry  the  jar,  but  you  can  take 
the  perambulator  and  wheel  it  back.  I  've  often 
done  that  when  I  had  much  to  carry." 

Hieronymus  Howard  looked  doubtfully  at  the 
perambulator. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  submissively.     "  I  sup 
pose  I  shall  only  look   like  an  ordinary  tramp. 
It   seems  to   be  the   fashion   to   tramp   on   this 
road  !  " 

It  never  entered  his  head  to  rebel.     The  great 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  25 

jar  was  lifted  into  the  perambulator,  and  Hie- 
ronymus  wheeled  it  away,  still  keeping  up  his 
dignity,  though  under  somewhat  trying  circum- 
stances. 

"  I  rather  wish  I  had  not  mentioned  anything 
about  primary  glory,"  he  remarked  to  himself. 
"  However,  I  will  not  faint  by  the  wayside  ; 
Mrs.  Benbow  is  a  person  not  lightly  to  be  dis- 
obeyed. In  this  respect  she  reminds  me  dis- 
tinctly of  Queen  Elizabeth,  or  Margaret  of 
Anjou,  with  just  a  dash  of  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte !  " 

So  he  walked  on  along  the  highroad.  Two 
or  three  tramps  passed  him,  wheeling  similar 
perambulators,  some  heaped  up  with  rags  and 
old  tins  and  umbrellas,  and  occasionally  a  baby  ; 
representing  the  sum-total  of  their  respective 
possessions  in  the  world.  They  looked  at  him 
with  curiosity,  but  no  pleasantry  passed  their 
lips.  There  was  nothing  to  laugh  at  in  Hierony- 
mus's  appearance  ;  there  was  a  quiet  dignity 
about  him  which  was  never  lost  on  any  one. 
His  bearing  tallied  with  his  character,  the  char- 


26  J  A'    VARYING  MOODS. 

acter  of  a  mellowed  human  being.  There  was 
a  restfulness  about  him  which  had  soothed 
more  than  one  tired  person  ;  not  the  restfulness 
of  stupidity,  but  the  repose  only  gained  by 
those  who  have  struggled  through  a  great  fever 
to  a  great  calm.  His  was  a  clean-shaven  face  ; 
his  hair  was  iron-grey.  There  was  a  kind  but 
firm  expression  about  his  mouth,  and  a  sus- 
picion of  humour  lingering  in  the  corners.  His 
eyes  looked  at  you  frankly.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  self-consciousness  in  his  manner  ;  long 
ago,  perhaps,  he  had  managed  to  get  away  from 
himself. 

He  enjoyed  the  country,  and  stopped  more 
than  once  to  pick  some  richly  tinted  leaf,  or 
some  tiny  flower  nestling  in  the  hedge.  He 
confided  all  his  treasures  to  the  care  of  the 
perambulator.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and 
the  sun  lit  up  the  hills,  which  were  girt  with  a 
belt  of  many  gems:  a  belt  of  trees,  each  rival- 
ling the  other  in  coloured  luxuriance.  I  [ierony- 
mus  sang.  Then  he  turned  down  a  lane  to 
the  left  and   found  some  nuts.     He  ate  these, 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  27 

and  went  on  his  way  again,  and  at  last  found 
himself  outside  a  farm  of  large  and  important 
aspect.  A  man  was  stacking  a  hay-rick.  Hie- 
ronymus  watched  him  keenly. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  I  wish  I 
could  do  that.  How  on  earth  do  you  manage 
it  ?     And  did  it  take  you  long  to  learn  ?  " 

The  man  smiled  in  the  usual  yokel  fashion, 
and  went  on  with  his  work.  Hieronymus  plainly 
did  not  interest  him. 

"  Is  this  the  Malt-House  Farm  ?  "  cried  Hie- 
ronymus, lustily. 

"  What  else  should  it  be  ? "  answered  the 
man. 

"These  rural  characters  are  inclined  to  be 
one-sided,"  thought  Hieronymus,  as  he  opened 
the  gate  and  wheeled  the  perambulator  into  the 
pretty  garden.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  they  are 
almost  as  narrow-minded  as  the  people  who  live 
in  cities  and  pride  themselves  on  their  breadth 
of  view.  Almost — but  on  reflection,  not 
quite  !  " 

He  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  porch,  and  a 


28  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

great  bustling  woman  opened  it.     He  explained 

his  mission  to  her,  and  pointed  to  the  jar  for  th< 
barm. 

"You  would  oblige  Mrs.  Benbow  greatly, 
ma'am,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  we  cannot  get  on 
with  our  beer  unless  you  come  to  our  assist- 
ance." 

"  Step  into  the  parlour,  sir,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"and  I'll  see  how  much  we've  got.  I  think 
you  are  the  gentleman  who  fought  the  gipsies 
You  've  hurt  your  arm,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  a  great  nuisance,"  he  answered,  cheer- 
ily ;  "  and  that  reminds  me  of  my  other  quest. 
I  want  some  one  to  write  for  me  an  hour  or  two 
every  day.  Mrs.  Benbow  mentioned  your 
daughter,  the  young  lady  who  came  to  us  on  the 
white  horse  yesterday." 

He  was  going  to  add  :  "The  young  lady  who 
wishes  to  go  out  into  the  world  "  ;  but  he 
checked  himself,  guessing  by  instinct  that  tin- 
young  lady  and  her  mother  had  probably  very 
little  in  common. 

"  Perhaps,  though,"  he  said,  "  I  take  a  liberty 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  29 

in  making  the  suggestion.     If  so,  you  have  only 
to  reprove  me,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  she  'd  like  to  write  for  you," 
said  Mrs.  Hammond,  "  if  she  can  be  spared 
from  the  butter  and  the  fowls.  She  likes  books 
and  pen  and  paper.  They  're  things  as  I  don't 
favour." 

"  No,"  said  Hieronymus,  suddenly  filled  with 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  his  own  littleness  ; 
"  you  are  occupied  with  other  more  useful 
matters." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Hammond,  fer- 
vently. "  Well,  if  you  '11  be  seated,  I  '11  send 
Joan  to  you,  and  I  '11  see  about  the  barm/' 

Hieronymus  settled  down  in  an  old  oak  chair, 
and  took  a  glance  at  the  comfortable  panelled 
room.  There  was  every  appearance  of  ease 
about  the  Malt-House  Farm,  and  yet  Farmer 
Hammond  and  his  wife  toiled  incessantly  from 
morning  to  evening,  exacting  continual  labour 
from  their  daughter  too.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  brasswork  in  the  parlour  :  it  was  kept  spot- 
lessly bright. 


30  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

In  a  few  minutes  Joan  came  in.  She  carried 
the  jar. 

"  I  have  filled  the  jar  with  harm,"  she  said, 
without  any  preliminaries.  "One  of  the  men 
can  take  it  back  if  you  like." 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
with  some  interest.  "  It  came  in  the  perambu- 
lator ;  it  can  return  in  the  same  conveyance." 

She  bent  over  the  table,  leaning  against  the 
jar.  She  smiled  at  his  words,  and  the  angry 
look  of  resentfulness,  which  seemed  to  be  her 
habitual  expression,  gave  way  to  a  more  pl< 
ing  one.  Joan  was  not  good-looking,  but  her 
face  was  decidedly  interesting.  She  was  of 
middle  stature,  slight  but  strong  ;  not  the  typical 
country-girl  with  rosy  cheeks,  but  pale,  though 
not  unhealthy.  She  was  dark  of  complexion  ;  her 
soft  brown  hair,  over  which  she  seemed  to  have 
no  control,  was  done  into  a  confused  mass  at  the 
back,  untidy,  but  pleasing.  Her  forehead  was 
not  interfered  with  ;  you  might  see  it  for  your- 
self, and  note  the  great  bumps  which  those 
rogues  of  phrenologists  delight  to  finger.     Sin- 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  31 

carried  her  head  proudly,  and  from  certain 
determined  little  jerks  which  she  gave  to  it,  you 
might  judge  of  her  decided  character.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  dark  gown,  and  wore  an  apron  of 
coarse  linen.  At  the  most  she  was  nineteen 
years  of  age. 

Hieronymus  just  glanced  at  her,  and  could 
not  help  comparing  her  with  her  mother. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  pleasantly,  "  and  now,  having 
settled  the  affairs  of  the  Green  Dragon,  I  pro- 
ceed to  my  own.  Will  you  come  and  be  my 
scribbler  for  a  few  days  ?  Or,  if  you  wish  for  a 
grander  title,  will  you  act  as  my  amanuensis  ? 
I  am  sadly  in  need  of  a  little  help.  I  have 
found  out  that  you  can  help  me." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  could  read  my 
writing,"  she  said,  shyly. 

"  That  does  not  matter  in  the  least,"  he 
answered.  "  I  sha'  n't  have  to  read  it.  Some  one 
else  will." 

"  My  spelling  is  not  faultless,"  she  said. 

"  Also  a  trifle  !  "  he  replied.  "  Spelling,  like 
every  other  virtue,  is  a  relative  thing,  depending 


32  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

largely  on  the  character  of  the  individual.  Have 
you  any  other  objection  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  brightly  at 
him. 

"  I  should  like  to  write  for  you,"  she  said,  "  if 
only  I  could  do  it  well  enough." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  answered,  kindly. 
"  Mrs.  Benbow  tells  me  you  are  a  young  lady 
who  does  good  work.  I  admire  that  beyond 
everything.  You  fatten  up  the  poultry  well,  you 
make  butter  and  pastry  well — should  n't  I  just 
like  to  taste  it  !  And  I  am  sure  you  have 
cleaned  this  brasswork." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  when  I  am  tired  of  every 
one  and  every  thing,  I  go  and  rub  up  the  brasses 
until  they  are  spotless.  When  I  am  utterly 
weary  of  the  whole  concern,  and  just  burning  to 
get  away  from  this  stupid  little  village,  I  polish 
the  candlesticks  and  handles  until  my  arms  are 
worn  out.     I  had  a  good  turn  at  it  yesterday." 

"  Was  yesterday  a  bad  day  with  you  then  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.     "  When  I  was  riding 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  33 

the  old  white  horse  yesterday,  I  just  felt  that  I 
could  go  on  riding,  riding  for  ever.  But  she  is 
such  a  slow  coach.     She  won't  go  quickly  !  " 

"  No,  I  should  think  you  could  walk  more 
quickly,"  said  Hieronymus.  "  Your  legs  would 
take  you  out  into  the  world  more  swiftly  than 
that  old  white  horse.  And  being  clear  of  this 
little  village,  and  being  out  in  the  great  world, 
what  do  you  want  to  do  ? " 

"  To  learn  !  "  she  cried  ;  "  to  learn  to  know 
something  about  life,  and  to  have  other  in- 
terests :  something  great  and  big,  something 
worth  wearing  one's  strength  away  for." 

Then  she  stopped  suddenly.  "What  a  goose 
I  am  !  "  she  said,  turning  away  half  ashamed. 

"  Something  great  and  big,"  he  repeated. 
"  Cynics  would  tell  you  that  you  have  a  weary 
quest  before  you.  But  I  think  it  is  very  easy 
to  find  something  great  and  big.  Only,  it  all 
depends  on  the  strength  of  your  telescope.  You 
must  order  the  best  kind,  and  unfortunately  one 
can't    afford    the  best   kind  when   one   is    very 

young.    You  have  to  pay  for  your  telescope,  not 

3 


34  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

with  money,  but  with  years.  But  when  at  last 
it  comes  into  your  possession,  ah,  how  it  alters 
the  look  of  things." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  lost  in 
thought ;  and  then,  with  the  brightness  so 
characteristic  of  him,  he  added  : 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going  home  to  my  humble 
duties  at  the  Green  Dragon,  and  you,  no  doubt, 
have  to  return  to  your  task  of  feeding  up  the 
poultry  for  the  market.  When  is  market-day 
at  Church  Stretton  ?  " 

"  On  Friday,"  she  answered. 

"  That  is  the  day  I  have  to  send  off  some  of 
my  writing,"  he  said  ;  "  my  market-day,  also, 
you  see." 

"  Are  you  a  poet  ?"  she  asked,  timidly. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her  ;  "  I  am 
that  poor  creature,  an  historian  :  one  of  those 
restless  persons  who  furridge  amongst  the  annals 
of  the  past." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  enthusiastically,  "I  have 
always  cared  more  about  history  than  any- 
thing else  !  " 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  35 

"Well,  then,  if  you  come  to-morrow  to  the 
Green  Dragon  at  eleven  o'clock,"  he  said, 
kindly,  "  you  will  have  thu  privilege  of  writing 
history  instead  of  reading  it.  And  now  I  sup- 
pose I  must  hasten  back  to  the  tyranny  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Can  you  lift  that  jar  into  the  peram- 
bulator ?     You  see  I  can't." 

She  hoisted  it  into  the  perambulator,  and  then 
stood  at  the  gate,  watching  him  as  he  pushed  it 
patiently  over  the  rough  road. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    MAKING    OF    THE   PASTRY. 

""THAT  same  afternoon  Mrs.  Hammond  put  on 
her  best  things  and  drove  in  the  dog-cart 
to  Minton,  where  Auntie  Lloyd  of  the  Tan- 
House  Farm  was  giving  a  tea-party.  Joan 
had  refused  to  go.  She  had  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  these  social  gatherings,  and  Auntie 
Lloyd  and  she  had  no  great  love,  the  one  for 
the  other.  Auntie  Lloyd,  who  was  regarded  as 
the  oracle  of  the  family,  summed  Joan  up  in  a 
few  sentences  : 

"  She  \s  a  wayward  creature,  with  all  her  fads 
about  books  and  book-learning.  I  've  no  patience 
with  her.  Fowls  and  butter  and  such  things  have 
been  good  enough  for  us  ;  why  does  she  want  to 
meddle  with  things  which  don't  concern  her  ? 
She  's  clever  at  her  work,  and  diligent  too.  If  it 
were  n't  for  that,  there  'd  be  no  abiding  her," 

36 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DRA  GON.  37 

Joan  summed  Auntie  Lloyd  up  in  a  few  words  : 

"  Oh,  she  's  Auntie  Lloyd,"  she  said,  shrugging 
her  shoulders. 

So  when  her  mother  urged  her  to  go  to  Minton 
to  this  tea-party,  which  was  to  be  something  quite 
special,  Joan  said  : 

"  No,  I  don't  care  about  going.  Auntie  Lloyd 
worries  me  to  death.  And  what  with  her,  and 
the  rum  in  the  tea,  and  those  horrid  crumpets, 
I  'd  far  rather  stay  at  home,  and  make  pastry,  and 
read  a  book." 

So  she  stayed.  Th?re  was  plenty  of  pastry  in 
the  larder,  and  there  seemed  no  particular  reason 
why  she  should  add  to  the  store.  But  she  evi- 
dently thought  differently  about  the  matter,  for 
she  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  rolled  up  her 
sleeves  and  began  her  work. 

"  I  hope  this  will  be  the  best  pastry  I  have  ever 
made,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  prepared  several 
jam-puffs  and  an  open  tart.  "  I  should  like  him 
to  taste  my  pastry.  An  historian.  I  wonder  what 
we  shall  write  about  to-morrow." 

She   put   the   pastry  into    the  oven,  and  sat 


38  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

lazily  in  the  ingle,  nursing  her  knees,  and 
musing.  She  was  thinking  the  whole  time  of 
Hieronymus,  of  his  kind  and  genial  manner, 
and  his  face  with  the  iron-grey  hair  :  she  would 
remember  him  always,  even  if  she  never  saw 
him  again.  Once  or  twice  it  crossed  her  mind 
that  she  had  been  foolish  to  speak  so  impatienth 
to  him  of  her  village  life.  He  would  just  think 
her  a  silly  discontented  girl,  and  nothing  more. 
And  yet  it  had  seemed  so  natural  to  talk  to  him 
in  that  strain  :  she  knew  by  instinct  that  he 
would  understand,  and  he  was  the  first  she  had 
ever  met  who  would  be  likely  to  understand. 
The  others — her  father,  her  mother,  David  Ellis 
the  exciseman,  who  was  supposed  to  be  fond  of 
her,  these  and  others  in  the  neighbourhood — 
what  did  they  care  about  her  desire  to  improve 
her  mind,  and  widen  out  her  life,  and  multiply 
her  interests  ?  She  had  been  waiting  for  months, 
almost  for  years  indeed,  to  speak  openly  to  some 
one  :  she  could  not  have  let  the  chance  go  by, 
now  that  it  had  come  to  her. 

The  puffs  meanwhile  were  forgotten.     When 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  39 

at  last  she  recollected  them,  she  hastened  to 
their  rescue,  and  found  that  she  was  only  just  in 
time.  Two  were  burnt  :  she  placed  the  others 
in  a  dish,  and  threw  the  damaged  ones  on  the 
table.  As  she  did  so,  the  kitchen-door  opened, 
and  the  exciseman  came  in,  and  seeing  the 
pastry,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  Joan,  making  pastry  !  Then  I  '11  test 
it  !" 

"  You  '11  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  said,  half 
angrily,  as  she  put  her  hands  over  the  dish.  "  I 
won't  have  it  touched.  You  can  eat  the  burnt 
ones  if  you  like." 

"  Not  I,"  he  answered.  "  I  want  the  best. 
Why,  Joan,  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  're 
downright  cross  to-day." 

"  I  'm  no  different  from  usual,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  he  said  ;  "  and,  what's  more, 
you  grow  different  every  week." 

"  I  grow  more  tired  of  this  horrid  little  village 
and  of  every  one  in  it,  if  that  's  what  you  mean," 
she  answered. 

He  had  thrown  his  whip  on   the  chair,  and 


40  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

stood  facing  her.  He  was  a  prosperous  man, 
much  respected,  and  much  liked  for  many  miles 
round  Little  Stretton.  It  was  an  open  secret 
that  he  loved  Joan  Hammond,  the  only  question 
in  the  village  being  whether  Joan  would  have 
him  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  propose  to 
her.  No  girl  in  her  senses  would  have  bun 
likely  to  refuse  the  exciseman  ;  but  then  Joan 
was  not  in  her  senses  ;  so  that  anything  might 
be  expected  of  her.  At  least,  such  was  the  ver- 
dict of  Auntie  Lloyd,  who  regarded  her  niece 
with  the  strictest  disapproval.  Joan  had  always 
been  more  friendly  with  David  than  with  any 
one  else  ;  and  it  was  no  doubt  this  friendliness, 
remarkable  in  one  who  kept  habitually  apart 
from  others,  which  had  encouraged  David  to  go 
on  hoping  to  win  her,  not  by  persuasion  but  1>\ 
patience.  He  loved  her,  indeed  he  had  always 
loved  her  ;  and  in  the  old  days,  when  he  was  a 
schoolboy  and  she  was  a  little  baby-child,  he  had 
left  his  companions  to  go  and  play  with  his  tiny 
girl-friend  up  at  the  Malt-House  Farm.  He  had 
no  sister  of  his  own,  and  he  liked  to  nurse  and 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DRA  GOAT.  4* 

pet  the  querulous  little  creature  who  was  always 
quiet  in  his  arms.  He  could  soothe  her  when 
no  one  else  had  any  influence.  But  the  years 
had  come  and  gone,  and  they  had  grown  apart  ; 
not  he  from  her,  but  she  from  him.  And  now 
he  stood  in  the  kitchen  of  the  old  farm,  reading 
in  her  very  manner  the  answer  to  the  question 
which  he  had  not  yet  asked  her.  That  question 
was  always  on  his  lips  :  how  many  times  had  he 
not  said  it  aloud  when  he  rode  his  horse  over 
the  country  ?  But  Joan  was  forbidding  of  late 
months,  and  especially  of  late  weeks,  and  the 
exciseman  had  always  told  himself  sadly  that 
the  right  moment  had  not  yet  come.  And  to- 
day, also,  it  was  not  the  right  moment.  A  great 
sorrow  seized  him,  for  he  longed  to  tell  her  that 
he  loved  and  understood  her,  and  that  he  was 
yearning  to  make  her  happy.  She  should  have 
books  of  her  own  ;  books,  books,  books  :  he  had 
already  bought  a  few  volumes  to  form  the  be- 
ginning of  her  library.  They  were  not  well 
chosen,  perhaps,  but  there  they  were,  locked  up 
in  his  private  drawer.     He  was  not  learned,  but 


42  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

he  would  learn  for  her  sake.  All  this  flashed 
through  his  mind  as  he  stood  before  her.  He 
looked  at  her  face,  and  could  not  trace  one- 
single  expression  of  kindliness  or  encourage- 
ment. 

"  Then  I  must  go  on  waiting,"  he  thought,  and 
he  stooped  and  picked  up  his  whip. 

"  Good-bye,  Joan,"  he  said,  quietly. 

The  kitchen-door  swung  on  its  hinges,  and 
Joan  was  once  more  alone. 

"An  historian,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she 
took  away  the  rolling-pin,  and  put  the  pastry 
into  the  larder.  "  I  wonder  what  we  shall  write 
about  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  V. 

PASTRY  AND  PERSONAL  MONARCHY. 

JOAN  sat  in  the  parlour  of  the  Green  Dragon, 
waiting  until  Hieronymus  had  finished  eat- 
ing a  third  jam-puff,  and  could  pronounce  him- 
self ready  to  begin  dictating.  A  few  papers 
were  scattered  about  on  the  table,  and  Gamboge 
was  curled  up  on  the  hearth-rug.  Joan  was 
radiant  with  pleasure,  for  this  was  her  nearest 
approach  to  intellectuality  ;  a  new  world  had 
opened  to  her  as  though  by  magic.  And  she 
was  radiant  with  another  kind  of  pleasure  :  this 
was  only  the  third  time  she  had  seen  the  his- 
torian, and  each  time  she  was  the  happier.  It 
was  at  first  a  little  shock  to  her  sense  of  intel- 
lectual propriety  that  the  scholar  yonder  could 
condescend  to  so  trivial  a  matter  as  pastry  ;  but 
then  Hieronymus  had  his  own   way  about  him, 

which  carried  conviction  in  the  end. 

43 


44  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "and  now  I  think  I  am 
ready  to  begin.  Dear  me!  What  excellent 
pastry  !  " 

Joan  smiled,  and  dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink. 

"  And  to  think  that  David  nearly  ate  it,"  she- 
said  to  herself.  And  that  was  about  the  first 
time  she  had  thought  of  him  since  yesterday. 

Then  the  historian  began.  His  language  was 
simple  and  dignified,  like  the  man  himself.  His 
subject  was  "  An  Introduction  to  the  Personal 
Monarchy,  which  began  with  the  Reign  of  Henry 
VIII."  Everything  he  said  was  crystal-clear. 
Moreover,  he  had  that  rare  gift,  the  power  of 
condensing  and  of  suggesting  too.  He  was 
nothing  if  not  an  impressionist.  Joan  had  no 
difficulty  in  keeping  pace  with  him,  for  he  dic- 
tated slowly.  After  nearly  two  hours,  he  left 
off,  and  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"  There  now,"  he  said,  "  that  's  enough  for 
to-day." 

And  he  seemed  just  like  a  schoolboy  released 
from  lessons. 

"  Come,  come,"  he  added,  as  he  looked  over 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  45 

the  manuscript.  "  I  shall  be  quite  proud  to  send 
that  in  to  the  printer.  You  would  make  a  capi- 
tal little  secretary.  You  are  so  quiet,  and  you 
don't  scratch  with  your  pen  :  qualities  which  are 
only  too  rare.  Well,  we  shall  be  able  to  go  on 
with  this  work,  if  you  can  spare  the  time,  and 
will  oblige  me.  And  we  must  make  some  ar- 
rangement about  money  matters." 

"  As  for  that,"  said  Joan,  hastily,  "  it 's  such  a 
change  from  the  never-ending  fowls  and  that 
everlasting  butter." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Hieronymus,  as  he  took 
his  pipe  from  the  mantel-shelf.  "  But  all  the 
same,  we  will  be  business-like.  Besides,  con- 
sider the  advantage  :  you  will  be  earning  a  little 
money  with  which  you  can  buy  either  books  to 
read,  or  fowls  to  fatten  up.  You  can  take  your 
choice,  you  know." 

"  I  should  choose  the  books,"  she  said,  quite 
fiercely. 

"  How  spiteful  you  are  about  those  fowls  !  " 
he  said. 

"  So  would  you  be,  if  you  had  been  looking 


46  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

after  them  all  your  life,"  Joan  answered,  still 
more  fiercely. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  you  being  a  volcanic 
young  lady,"  Hieronymus  remarked,  thought- 
fully. "  But  I  understand.  I  was  also  a  volcano 
once  :  I  am  now  extinct.  You  will  be  extinct 
after  a  few  years,  and  you  will  be  so  thankful 
for  the  repose.  But  one  has  to  go  through  a 
great  many  eruptions  as  preliminaries  to  peace." 

"  Any  kind  of  experience  is  better  than  none 
at  all,"  Joan  said,  more  gently  this  time.  "  You 
can't  think  how  I  dread  a  life  in  which  nothing 
happens.  I  want  to  have  my  days  crammed  full 
of  interests  and  events.  Then  I  shall  learn 
something  ;  but  here — what  can  one  learn  ?  You 
should  just  see  Auntie  Lloyd,  and  be  with  her 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  When  you  've  seen 
her,  you  've  seen  the  whole  neighbourhood.  Oh, 
how  I  dislike  her  !  " 

Her  tone  of  voice  expressed  so  heartily  her 
feelings  about  Auntie  Lloyd,  that  Hieronymus 
laughed,  and  Joan  laughed  too. 

She  had  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  stood  ready 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DRA  GON.  47 

to  go  home.  The  historian  stroked  Gamboge, 
put  away  his  papers,  and  expressed  himself  in- 
clined to  accompany  Joan  part  of  the  way. 

He  ran  into  the  kitchen  to  tell  Mrs.  Benbow 
that  he  would  not  be  long  gone. 

"  Dinner  won't  be  ready  for  quite  an  hour,"  she 
said,  "  as  the  butcher  came  so  late.  But  here  is  a 
cup  of  beef-tea  for  you.    You  look  rather  tired." 

"  I  've  had  such  a  lot  of  pastry,"  Hieronymus 
pleaded,  and  he  turned  to  Mr.  Benbow,  who  had 
just  come  into  the  kitchen  followed  by  his  faith- 
ful collie.  "  I  don't  feel  as  though  I  could 
manage  the  beef-tea  !  " 

"  It 's  no  use  kicking  against  the  traces,"  said 
Mr.  Benbow,  laughing.  "  I  've  found  that  out 
long  ago.     Sarah  is  a  tyrant." 

But  it  was  evidently  a  tyranny  which  suited 
him  very  well,  for  there  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of 
settled  happiness  between  the  host  and  hostess 
of  the  Green  Dragon.  Some  such  thought  passed 
through  Hieronymus's  mind  as  he  gulped  down 
the  beef-tea,  and  then  started  off  happily  with 
Joan. 


48  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

"  I  like-   both  the   Benbows,"  he  said  to  her. 

And  it  is  very  soothing  to  be  with  people  who 
are  happy  together.  I  'm  cosily  housed  thi 
and  not  at  all  sorry  to  have  had  my  plans  altered 
by  the  gipsies  ;  especially  now  that  I  can  go  on 
with  my  work  so  comfortably.  My  friends  in 
Wales  may  wait  forme  as  long  as  they  choose." 

Joan  would  have  wished  to  tell  him  how  glad 
she  was  that  he  was  going  to  stay.  But  she  just 
smiled  happily.  He  was  so  bright  himself,  that 
it  was  impossible  not  to  be  happy  in  his  com- 
pany. 

"  I  'm  so  pleased  I  have  done  some  dictating 
to-day,"  he  said,  as  he  plucked  an  autumn  leaf 
and  put  it  into  his  buttondiole.  "  And  now  I 
can  enjoy  myself  all  the  more.  You  cannot  think 
how  I  do  enjoy  the  country.  These  hills  are  so 
wonderfully  soothing.  I  never  remember  being 
in  a  place  where  the  hills  have  given  me  such  a 
sense  of  repose  as  here.  Those  words  constantly 
recur  to  me  : 

"  '  His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  49 

(Though  on  its  slopes  men  sow  and  reap). 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  Beloved  sleep.' 

It 's  all  so  true,  you  know,  and  yonder  are 
the  slopes  cultivated  by  men.  I  am  always 
thinking  of  these  words  here.  They  match 
with  the  hills,  and  they  match  with  my  feel- 
ings." 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  the  hills  in  that 
way,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  kindly,  "  because  you  are 
not  tired  yet.  But  when  you  are  tired,  not  with 
imaginary  battlings,  but  with  the  real  campaigns 
of  life,  then  you  will  think  about  the  dews  falling 
softly  on  the  hills." 

"  Are  you  tired,  then  ?  "  she  aked. 

"  I  have  been  very  tired,"  he  answered,  simply. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  he  added  :  "  You  wished  for  knowl- 
edge, and  here  you  are  surrounded  by  oppor- 
tunities for  attaining  to  it." 

"  I  have  never  found  Auntie  Lloyd  a  specially 


5o  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

interesting  subje<  t  for  study,"  Joan  said,  obsti- 
nately. 

Hieronymus  smiled. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  Auntie  Lloyd,"  he 
said.  "  I  was  thinking  of  all  these  beautiful 
hedges,  these  lanes  with  their  countless  treasures, 
and  this  stream  with  its  bed  of  stones,  and  those 
hills  yonder  :  all  of  them  eloquent  with  the  won- 
der of  the  earth's  history.  You  are  literally  sur- 
rounded with  the  means  of  making  your  minds 
beautiful,  you  country  people.  And  why  don't 
you  do  it  ?  " 

Joan  listened.     This  was  new  language  to  her. 

Hieronymus  continued  : 

"  The  sciences  are  here  for  you.  They  offer 
themselves  to  you,  without  stint,  without  meas- 
ure. Nature  opens  her  book  to  you.  Have 
you  ever  tried  to  read  it?  From  the  things 
which  fret  and  worry  our  souls,  from  the  people 
who  worry  and  fret  us,  from  ourselves  who 
worry  and  fret  ourselves,  we  can  at  least  turn  to 
Nature.  There  we  find  our  right  place,  a  rest- 
ing-place of  intense  repose.     There  we  lose  that 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  51 

troublesome  part  of  ourselves,  our  own  sense  of 
importance.     Then  we  rest,  and  not  until  then." 

"  Why  should  you  speak  to  me  of  rest  ?  "  the 
girl  cried,  her  fund  of  patience  and  control 
coming  suddenly  to  an  end.  "  I  don't  want  to 
rest.  I  want  to  live  a  full,  rich  life,  crammed 
Avith  interests.  I  want  to  learn  about  life  itself, 
not  about  things.  It  is  so  absurd  to  talk  to  me 
of  rest.  You  've  had  your  time  of  unrest, — you 
said  so.  I  don't  care  about  peace  and  repose  ! 
I  don't " 

She  left  off  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun, 
fearing  to  seem  too  ill-mannered. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  he  said,  gently,  "  and 
I  'm  a  goose  to  think  you  should.  No,  you  will 
have  to  go  out  into  the  world,  and  to  learn  for 
yourself  that  it  is  just  the  same  there  as  every- 
where :  butter  and  cheese-making,  prize-win- 
ning, and  prize-losing,  and  very  little  satisfac- 
tion either  over  the  winning  or  the  losing  ;  and  a 
great  many  Auntie  Lloyds,  probably  a  good  deal 
more  trying  than  the  Little  Stretton  Auntie 
Lloyd.     Only,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  not  talk 


52  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

about  it  any  more.      I  should  just  go.     Saddle 
the  white  horse  and  go  !      Get  your  experiem 
thick  and  quick.    Then  you  will  be  glad  to  rest." 

"Are  you  making  fun  of  me? "she  asked, 
half  suspiciously,  for  he  had  previously  joked 
about  the  slow  pace  of  the  white  horse. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  in  his  kind  way  ;  "  why 
should  I  make  fun  of  you?  We  cannot  all  be 
content  to  go  on  living  a  quiet  life  in  a  little 
village." 

At  that  moment  the  exciseman  passed  hy 
them  on  horseback.  He  raised  his  hat  to  Joan, 
and  looked  with  some  curiosity  at  Hieronymus. 
Joan  coloured.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
not  behaved  kindly  to  him  yesterday  ;  and  after 
all,  he  was  David,  David  who  had  always  been 
good  to  her,  ever  since  she  could  remember. 

"  Who      was      that  ? "      asked      Hieronymus 
"  What  a  trim,  nicedooking  man  !  " 

"  He  is  David  Ellis,  the  exciseman,"  Joan 
said,  half  reluctantly. 

"  I  wonder  when  he  is  going  to  test  the  beer 
at    the    Green    Dragon,"    said    the    historian, 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON,  53 

anxiously.  "  I  would  n't  miss  that  fof  anything. 
Will  you  ask  him  ?  " 

Joan  hesitated.  Then  she  hastened  on  a  few- 
steps,  and  called  "  David  !  " 

David  turned  in  his  saddle,  and  brought  his 
horse  to  a  standstill.  He  wondered  what  Joan 
could  have  to  say  to  him. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  test  the  beer  at  the 
Green  Dragon  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Some  time  this  afternoon,"  he  answered. 
"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  The  gentleman  who  is  staying  at  the  inn 
wants  to  know,"  Joan  said. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?  "  David 
asked,  quietly. 

"  No,"  said  Joan,  looking  up  at  him.  "  There 
is  something  more  ;  about  that  pastry " 

But  just  then  Hieronymus  had  joined  them. 

"  If  you  're  talking  about  pastry,"  he  said,  "  I 
never  tasted  any  better  than  Miss  Hammond's. 
I  ate  a  dishful  this  morning  !  " 

The  exciseman  looked  at  Joan,  and  at  the 
historian. 


54  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  cracked  his  whip,  "it 
tastes  good  for  those  who  can  get  it,  and  it  tastes 
bad  to  those  who  can't  get  it." 

And  with  that  he  galloped  away,  leaving  Joan 
confused,  and  Hieronymus  mystified.  He 
glanced  at  his  companion,  and  seemed  to 
expect  that  she  would  explain  the  situation  ; 
but  as  she  did  not  attempt  to  do  so,  he  walked 
quietly  along  with  her  until  they  came  to  the 
short  cut  which  led  back  to  the  Green  Dragon. 
There  he  parted  from  her,  making  an  arrange- 
ment that  she  should  come  and  write  for  him  on 
the  morrow.  But  as  he  strolled  home,  he  said 
to  himself  :  "  I  am  much  afraid  that  I  have  been 
eating  some  one  else's  pastry  !  Well,  it  was 
very  good,  especially  the  jam-puffs!  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   EXCISEMAN'S    LIBRARY. 

pvAVID  ELLIS  did  not  feel  genially  disposed 
towards  the  historian;  and  yet  when  he  stood 
in  the  kitchen  of  the  Green  Dragon,  testing  the 
new  brew,  and  saw  Hieronymus  eagerly  watch- 
ing the  process,  he  could  not  but  be  amused. 
There  was  something  about  Hieronymus  which 
was  altogether  irresistible.  He  had  a  power 
quite  unconscious  to  himself,  of  drawing  people 
over  to  his  side.  And  yet  he  never  tried  to  win  : 
he  was  just  himself,  nothing  more  and  nothing 
less. 

"  I  am  not  wishing  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of 
the  profession,"  he  said  to  David  Ellis  ;  "  but  I 
do  like  to  see  how  everything  is  done." 

The  exciseman  good-naturedly  taught  him  how 
to  test  the  strength  of  the  beer,  and  Hierony- 

55 


56  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

mus  was  as  pleased  as  though  he  had  learnt 
some  great  secret  of  the  universe,  or  unearthed 
some  long-forgotten  fact  in  history. 

"  Are  you  sure  the  beer  comes  up  to  its  usual 
standard  ?  "  he  asked  mischievously,  turning  to 
Mrs.  Benbow  at  the  same  time.  "  Are  you  sure 
it  has  nothing  of  the  beef-tea  element  about  it  ? 
We  drink  beef-tea  by  the  quart  in  this  estab- 
lishment.    I  'm  allowed  nothing  else  !  " 

David  laughed,  and  said  it  was  the  best  beer 
in  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  with  that  he  left  the 
kitchen  and  went  into  the  ale-room,  to  exchange 
a  few  words  with  Mr.  Howells,  the  proprietor  of 
the  rival  inn,  who  always  came  to  the  Green 
Dragon  to  have  his  few  glasses  of  beer  in  peace, 
free  from  the  stormy  remonstrances  of  his  wife. 
Every  one  in  Little  Stretton  knew  his  secret, 
and  respected  it.  Hieronymus  returned  to  the 
parlour,  where  he  was  supposed  to  be  deep  in 
study. 

After  a  few  minutes,  some  one  knocked  at  the 
door,  and  David  Ellis  came  in. 

"  Excuse  me  troubling  you,"  he  said,  rather 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  57 

nervously,  "  but  there  is  a  little  matter  I  wanted 
to  ask  you  about." 

"  It 's  about  that  confounded  pastry  !  "thought 
Hieronymus  as  he  drew  a  chair  to  the  fireside, 
and  welcomed  the  exciseman  to  it. 

David  sank  down  into  it,  twisted  his  whip,  and 
looked  now  at  Hieronymus  and  now  at  the  books 
which  lay  scattered  on  the  table.  He  evidently 
wished  to  say  something,  but  he  did  not  know 
how  to  begin. 

''  I  know  what  you  want  to  say,"  said  Hie- 
ronymus. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  answered  the  exciseman. 
"  No  one  knows  except  myself." 

Hieronymus  retreated,  crushed,  but  rather 
relieved  too. 

Then  David,  gaining  courage,  continued  : 

"  Books  are  in  your  line,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"  It  just  does  happen  to  be  my  work  to  know 
a  little  about  them,"  the  historian  answered. 
"  Are  you  interested  in  them  too  ? " 

'  Well,"  said  David,  hesitating,  "  I  can't  say 
I  read  them,  but  I  buy  them." 


58  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"  Most  people  do  that,"  said  Hieronymus  ;  "  it 
takes  less  time  to  buy  than  to  read,  and  we  are 
pressed  for  time  in  this  century." 

"  You  see,"  said  the  exciseman,  "  I  don't  buy 
the  books  for  myself,  and  it 's  rather  awkward 
knowing  what  to  get.  Now  what  would  you  get 
for  a  person  who  was  really  fond  of  reading  : 
something  of  a  scholar,  you  understand  ?  That 
would  help  me  for  my  next  lot." 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  taste  of  the  person," 
Hieronymus  said,  kindly.  "  Some  like  poetry, 
some  like  novels  :  others  like  books  about  the 
moon,  and  others  like  books  about  the  North 
Pole,  or  the  Tropics." 

David  did  not  know  much  about  the  North 
Pole  or  the  Tropics,  but  he  had  certainly  bought 
several  volumes  of  poetry,  and  Hieronymus's 
words  gave  him  courage. 

"  I  bought  several  books  of  poetry,"  he  said, 
lifting  his  head  up  with  a  kind  of  triumph 
which  was  unmistakable.  "  Cowper,  Mrs. 
Hemans " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hieronymus,  patiently. 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  59 

"And  the  other  day  I  bought  Milton,"  con- 
tinued the  exciseman. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  historian,  with  a  faint  smile 
of  cheerfulness.  He  had  never  been  able  to 
care  for  Milton  (though  he  never  owned  to 
this). 

"  And  now  I  thought  of  buying  this,"  said 
David,  taking  from  his  pocket-book  a  small  slip 
of  paper  and  showing  it  to  his  companion. 

Hieronymus  read  :  "  Selections  from  Robert 
Browning." 

"  Come,  come  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"  this  is  a  good  choice  !  " 

"  It  is  not  my  choice,"  said  David,  simply.  "  I 
don't  know  one  fellow  from  the  other.  But  the 
man  at  the  shop  in  Ludlow  told  me  it  was  a  book 
to  have.  If  you  say  so  too,  of  course  that  settles 
the  matter." 

"  Well,"  said  Hieronymus,  "  and  what  about 
the  other  books  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  David,  suddenly,  "  if 
you  'd  come  to  my  lodgings  one  day,  you  could 
look  at  the  books  I  've  got,  and  advise  me  about 


60  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

others.     That  would  be  the  shortest  and  pleas- 
antest  way." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  the  historian.  "  Then 
you  have  not  yet  given  away  your  gifts  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  David,  quietly.  "  I  am  wait- 
ing awhile." 

And  then  he  relapsed  into  silence  and  timidity, 
and  went  on  twisting  his  whip. 

Hieronymus  was  interested,  but  he  had  too 
much  delicate  feeling  to  push  the  inquiry,  and 
not  having  a  mathematical  mind,  he  was  quite 
unable  to  put  two  and  two  together  without  help 
from  another  source.  So  he  just  went  on  smok- 
ing his  pipe,  wondering  all  the  time  what  possible 
reason  his  companion  could  have  for  collecting 
a  library  beginning  with  Mrs.  Hemans. 

After  a  remark  about  the  weather  and  the 
crops — Hieronymus  was  becoming  quite  agri- 
cultural— David  rose  in  an  undecided  kind  of 
manner,  expressed  his  thanks,  and  took  his  le 
but  there  was  evidently  something  more  he 
wanted  to  say,  and  yet  he  went  away  without 
saying  it. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  61 

"I'm  sure  he  wants  to  speak  about  that 
pastry,"  thought  Hieronymus.  "  Confound  him  ! 
Why  does  n't  he  ?  " 

The  next  moment  the  door  opened,  and  David 
put  his  head  in. 

"  There's  something  else  I  wanted  to  say,"  he 
stammered  out.  "  The  fact  is,  I  don't  tell  any- 
body about  the  books  I  buy.  It 's  my  own 
affair,  and  I  like  to  keep  it  to  myself.  But  I  'm 
sure  I  can  trust  you." 

"  I  should  just  think  you  could,"  Hierony- 
mus answered. 

So  he  promised  secrecy,  and  then  followed 
the  exciseman  to  the  door,  and  watched  him 
mount  his  horse  and  ride  off.  Mr.  Benbow 
was  coming  in  at  the  time,  and  Hieronymus 
said  some  few  pleasant  words  about  David  Ellis. 

"  He  's  the  nicest  man  in  these  parts,"  Mr. 
Benbow  said,  warmly.  "We  all  like  him. 
Joan  Hammond  will  be  a  lucky  girl  if  she 
gets  him  for  a  husband." 

"  Is  he  fond  of  her,  then  ? "  asked  Hie- 
ronymus, 


62  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"  He  has  always  been  fond  of  her,"  Mr.  Ben- 
bow  answered. 

Then  Hieronymus,  having  received  this  valu- 
able assistance,  proceeded  carefully  to  put  two 
and  two  together. 

"  Now  I  know  for  whom  the  exciseman  in- 
tends his  library  ! "  he  said  to  himself,  tri- 
umphantly. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AUNTIE    LLOYD    I  ROTESTS. 

A  UNTIE  LLOYD  was  a  material,  highly 
prosperous  individual,  utterly  bereft  of 
all  ideas  except  one  ;  though,  to  be  sure,  the 
one  idea  which  she  did  possess  Avas  of  over- 
whelming bulk,  being,  indeed,  the  sense  of  her 
own  superiority  over  all  people  of  all  coun- 
tries and  all  centuries.  This  was  manifest  not 
only  in  the  way  she  spoke,  but  also  in  the  way 
she  folded  her  hands  together  on  the  buckle 
of  her  waist-belt,  as  though  she  were  murmur- 
ing :  "  Thank  heaven  I  am  Auntie  Lloyd,  and 
no  one  else  !  "  All  her  relations,  and  indeed 
all  her  neighbours,  bowed  down  to  her  author- 
ity :  it  was  recognised  by  every  one  that  the 
mistress  of  the  Tan-House  Farm  was  a  person- 
age who  must  not  be  disob  eyed  in  the  smallest 

63 


64  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

particular.  There  had  been  one  rebel  in  the 
camp  for  many  years  now:  Joan.  She  alone 
had  dared  to  raise  the  standard  of  revolt.  At 
fust  she  had  lifted  it  only  an  inch  high  ;  but 
strength  and  courage  had  come  with  years,  and 
now  the  standard  floated  triumphantly  in  the 
air.  And  to-day  it  readied  its  full  height,  for 
Auntie  Lloyd  had  driven  over  to  the  Mart- 
House  Farm  to  protest  with  her  niece  about 
this  dictation,  and  Joan,  though  she  did  not 
use  the  exact  words,  had  plainly  told  her  to 
mind  her  own  business. 

Auntie  Lloyd  had  been  considerably  "  worked 
up  "  ever  since  she  had  heard  the  news  that 
Joan  went  to  write  for  a  gentleman  at  the 
Green  Dragon.  Then  she  heard  that  Joan  not 
only  wrote  for  him,  but  was  also  seen  walking 
about  with  him  ;  for  it  was  not  at  all  likely  that 
an  episode  of  this  description  would  pass  with- 
out comment  in  Little  Stretton  ;  and  Auntie 
Lloyd  was  not  the  only  person  who  remarked 
and  criticised.  A  bad  attack  of  sciatica  had 
kept  her  from  interfering  at  the  outset  ;  but  as 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DRA  GON.  65 

soon  as  she  was  even  tolerably  well,  she  made 
a  descent  upon  the  Malt-House  Farm,  having 
armed  herself  with  the  most  awe-inspiring 
bonnet  and  mantle  which  her  wardrobe  could 
supply.  But  Joan  was  proof  against  such  ter- 
rors. She  listened  to  all  Auntie  Lloyd  had  to 
say,  and  merely  remarked  that  she  did  not  con- 
sider it  was  any  one's  affair  but  her  own.  That 
was  the  most  overwhelming  statement  that  had 
ever  been  made  to  Auntie  Lloyd.  No  wonder 
that  she  felt  faint. 

"  It  is  distinctly  a  family  affair,"  she  said, 
angrily.  "  If  you  're  not  careful,  you  '11  lose 
the  chance  of  David  Ellis.  You  can't  expect 
him  to  be  dangling  about  your  heels  all  his  life. 
He  will  soon  be  tired  waiting  for  your  pleasure. 
Do  you  suppose  that  he,  too,  does  not  know  you 
are  amusing  yourself  with  this  new-comer  ?  " 

Joan  was  pouring  out  tea  at  the  time,  and 
her  hand  trembled  as  she  filled  the  cup. 

"  I  won't  have  David  Ellis  thrust  down  my 
throat  by  you  or  by  any  one,"  she  said,  deter- 
minedly, 
s 


66  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

And  with  that  she  looked  at  her  watch,  and 
calmly  said  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  be  off 
to  the  Green  Dragon,  Mr.  Howard  having 
asked  her  to  go  in  the  afternoon  instead  of 
the  morning.  But  though  she  left  Auntie 
Lloyd  quelled  and  paralysed,  and  was  con- 
scious that  she  had  herself  won  the  battle 
once  and  for  all,  she  was  very  much  irritated 
and  distressed  too.  Hieronymus  noticed  that 
something  was  wrong  with  her. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Has 
Auntie  Lloyd  been  paying  a  visit  to  the  Malt- 
House  Farm,  and  exasperated  you  beyond  all 
powers  of  endurance?  Or  was  the  butter- 
making  a  failure  ?  Or  is  it  the  same  old 
story  :  general  detestation  of  every  one  and 
everything  in  Little  Stretton,  together  with  an 
inward  determination  to  massacre  the  whole 
village  at  the  earliest  opportunity?" 

Joan  smiled,  and  looked  up  at  the  kind 
face  which  always  had  such  a  restful  influ- 
ence on  her. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  67 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  root  of  the  whole 
matter,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said,  gently,  as 
he  turned  to  his  papers  ;  "  but  I  think  you 
are  not  quite  wise  to  let  your  discontent  grow 
beyond  your  control.  Most  people,  you  know, 
when  their  lives  are  analysed,  are  found  to 
have  but  sorry  material  out  of  which  to  fash- 
ion for  themselves  satisfaction  and  content- 
ment." 

Her  face  flushed  as  he  spoke,  and  a  great 
peace  fell  over  her.  When  she  was  with  him, 
all  was  well  with  her  :  the  irritations  at  home, 
the  annoyances  either  within  or  without,  either 
real  or  imaginary,  and  indeed  all  worries, 
passed  for  the  time  out  of  her  memory. 
David  Ellis  was  forgotten,  Auntie  Lloyd  was 
forgotten  ;  the  narrow,  dull,  every-day  exist- 
ence broadened  out  into  many  interesting  pos- 
sibilities. Life  had  something  bright  to  offer 
to  Joan.  She  bent  happily  over  the  pages, 
thoroughly  enjoying  her    congenial  task  ;    and 


68  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

now  and  again  during  the  long  pauses  of  si- 
lence, when  Hiemn vmus  \  \;  thinking  out  his 
subje<  t,  she  -lamed  at  his  kind  face  and  his 
silvered  head. 

And  restless  little  Joan  was  restful. 


CrlAPTER    VIII. 


THE    DISTANCE    GROWS. 


CO  the  days  slipped  away,  and  Joan  came  regu- 
larly to  the  Green  Dragon,  to  write  to  the 
historian's  dictation.  These  mornings  were  red- 
letter  days  in  her  life  :  she  had  never  before  had 
anything  which  she  could  have  called  compan- 
ionship, and  now  this  best  of  all  pleasures  was 
suddenly  granted  to  her.  She  knew  well  that 
it  could  not  last  ;  that  very  soon  the  historian 
would  go  back  into  his  own  world,  and  that  she 
would  be  left  lonely,  lonelier  than  ever.  But 
meanwhile  she  was  happy.  She  always  felt,  after 
having  been  with  him,  as  though  some  sort  of 
peace  had  stolen  over  her.  It  did  not  hold  her 
long,  this  sense  of  peace.  It  was  merely  that 
quieting  influence  which  a  mellowed  nature  exer- 
cises at  rare  moments  over  an  unmellowed  na- 

69 


70  IN    VARYING  MOv. 

tu re,  being  indeed  a  snatch  of  that  wonderful 
restfulness  which  lias  something  divine  in  its 
essence.  She  did  not  analyse  her  feelings  for 
him,  she  dared  not.  She  just  drifted  on,  dream- 
ing. And  she  was  grateful  to  him  too,  for  she 
had  unburdened  her  heavy  heart  to  him,  and  he 
had  not  laughed  at  her  aspirations  and  ambi- 
tions. He  had  certainly  made  a  little  fun  over 
her,  but  not  in  the  way  which  conveyed  con- 
tempt :  on  the  contrary,  his  manner  of  teasing 
gave  the  impression  of  the  kindliest  sympathy. 
He  had  spoken  sensible  words  of  advice  to  her 
too  ;  not  in  any  formal  set  lecture — that  would 
have  been  impossible  to  him, — but  in  detached 
sentences  given  out  at  different  times,  with 
words  simple  in  themselves,  but  able  to  suggest 
many  good  and  noble  thoughts.  At  least  that 
was  what  Joan  gathered,  that  was  her  judgment 
of  him,  that  was  the  effect  he  produced  on  her. 
Then  he  was  not  miserly  of  his  learning.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  scholars  who  keep  their 
wisdom  for  their  narrow  and  appreciative  little 
set;  he  gave  of  his  lust,  with   royal  generosity, 


A  T  THE  GREEK  DRAGON.  71 

to  every  one,  and  he  gave  of  his  best  to  her. 
He  saw  that  she  was  really  interested  in  history, 
and  that  it  pleased  her  to  hear  him  talk  about 
it.  Out  then  came  his  stores  of  knowledge,  all 
for  her  special  service  !  But  that  was  only  half 
of  the  process  ;  he  taught  her  by  finding  out 
from  her  what  she  knew,  and  then  returning  her 
knowledge  to  her  twofold  enriched.  She  was 
eager  to  learn,  and  he  was  interested  in  her 
eagerness.  It  was  his  nature  to  be  kind  and 
chivalrous  to  every  one,  and  he  was  therefore 
kind  and  chivalrous  to  his  little  secretary.  He 
saw  her  constantly  in  "  school-hours,"  as  he 
called  the  time  spent  in  dictating,  and  out  of 
school-hours  too.  He  took  such  an  interest  in 
all  matters  connected  with  the  village  that  he 
was  to  be  found  everywhere,  now  gravely  con- 
templating the  cows  and  comparing  them  with 
Mr.  Benbow's  herd,  now  strolling  through  the 
market-place,  and  now  passing  stern  criticisms 
on  the  butter  and  poultry,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing.  Once  he  even  tried  to  sell  Joan  Ham- 
mond's butter  to  Mrs.  Benbow. 


72  IN    VAR  YING  MOODS. 

"I  assure  you,  ma'am,"  I  •  said  to  the  land- 
lady of  the  Green  Diagon,  "the  very  best 
cooking    butter  in    the   kingdom  !      Taste  ;m<l 

e." 

"But  it  isn't  cooking  butter!"  interposed 
Joan,  hastily. 

But  she  laughed  all  the  same,  and  Hierony- 
mus,  much  humbled  by  his  mistake,  made  no 
more  attempts  to  sell  butter. 

He  seemed  thoroughly  contented  with  his  life 
at  Little  Stretton,  and  in  no  hurry  to  join  his 
friends  in  Wales.  He  was  so  genial  that  every 
one  liked  him  and  spoke  well  of  him.  If  he 
was  driving  in  the  pony-carriage  and  saw  any 
children  trudging  home  after  school,  he  would 
find  room  for  four  or  five  of  them  and  take  them 
back  in  triumph  to  the  village.  If  he  met  an 
old  woman  carrying  a  bundle  of  wood,  he  im- 
mediately transferred  the  load  from  herself,  to 
himself,  and  walked  along  by  her  side,  chatting 
merrily  the  while.  As  for  the  tramps  who 
passed  on  the  high-road  from  Ludlow  to  Church 
Stretton,    they    found     in     him    a    sympathetic 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  73 

friend.  His  hand  was  always  in  his  pocket  for 
them.  He  listened  to  their  tales  of  woe,  and 
stroked  the  "  property  "  baby  in  the  perambu- 
lator, and  absolutely  refused  to  be  brought  to 
order  by  Mrs.  Benbow,  who  declared  that  she 
knew  more  about  tramps  than  he  did,  and  that 
the  best  thing  to  do  with  them  was  to  send  them 
about  their  business  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  You  will  ruin  the  reputation  of  the  Green 
Dragon,"  she  said,  "  if  you  go  on  entertaining 
tramps  outside.  Take  your  friends  over  to  the 
other  inn  !  " 

She  thought  that  this  would  be  a  strong  argu- 
ment, as  Hieronymus  was  particularly  proud  of 
the  Green  Dragon,  having  discovered  that  it 
was  patronised  by  the  aristocrats  of  the  village, 
and  considered  infinitely  superior  to  its  rival  the 
Crown  Inn  opposite. 

But  the  historian,  so  yielding  in  other  respects, 
continued  his  intimacies  with  the  tramps,  some- 
times even  leaving  his  work  if  he  chanced  to  see 
an  interesting-looking  wanderer  slouching  past 
the   Green   Dragon.     Joan  had  become  accus- 


74 


IN    VARYING  MOODS. 


tomed  to  these  interruptions.  She  just  sat  wait- 
ing patiently  until  Hieronymus  came  back,  and 
plunged  tune  more  into  the  History  of  the 
Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries,  or  the  Attitude 
of  the  Foreign  Powers  to  each  other  during  the 
latter  Years  of  Henry  VIII. 

"  I  'm  a  troublesome  fellow,"  he  would  say  to 
her  sometimes,  "  and  you  are  very  patient  with 
me.  In  fact,  you  're  a  regular  little  brick  of  a 
secretary." 

Then  she  would  flush  with  pleasure  to  hear 
his  words  of  praise.  But  he  never  noticed  that, 
and  never  thought  he  was  leading  her  farther 
and  farther  away  from  her  surroundings  and 
ties,  and  putting  great  distances  between  herself 
and  the  exciseman. 

So  little  did  he  guess  it,  that  one  day  he  even 
ventured  to  joke  with  her.  He  had  been  talking 
to  her  about  John  Richard  Green,  the  historian, 
and  he  asked  her  whether  she  had  read  A  Short 
History  of  the  English  People.  She  told  him  she 
had  never  read  it. 

"  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  that  book,"  he  said  : 


AT  THE  GRREN  DRAGON.  75 

and  he  immediately  thought  that  he  would  buy 
it  for  her.  Then  he  remembered  the  excise- 
man's library,  and  judged  that  it  would  be  better 
to  let  him  buy  it  for  her. 

"  I  hear  you  have  a  very  devoted  admirer  in 
the  exciseman,"   Hieronymus  said,  slyly. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? "  Joan  said, 
sharply. 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  "I  was  told."  But  he 
saw  that  his  volcanic  little  companion  was  not 
too  pleased  ;  and  so  he  began  talking  again  of 
John  Richard  Green.  He  told  her  about  the 
man  himself,  his  work,  his  suffering,  his  person- 
ality. He  told  her  how  the  young  men  at  Ox- 
ford were  advised  to  travel  on  the  Continent  to 
expand  their  minds,  and  if  they  could  not  afford 
this  advantage  after  their  university  career,  then 
they  were  to  read  John  Richard  Green.  He 
told  her,  too,  of  the  grave  at  Mentone,  with  the 
simple  words,  "  He  died  learning." 

Thus  he  would  talk  to  her,  taking  her  always 
into  a  new  world  of  interest.  Then  she  was  in  an 
enchanted  kingdom,  and  he  was  the  magician. 


76  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

It  was  a  world  in  which  agriculture  and  dairy- 
farming  and  all  the  other  wearinesses  of  her 
every-day  life  had  no  part.  Some  people  might 
think  it  was  but  a  poor  enchanted  realm  which 
he  conjured  up  for  her  pleasure.  But  enchant- 
ment, like  every  other  emotion,  is  but  relative 
after  all.  Some  little  fragment  of  intellectuality 
had  long  been  Joan's  idea  of  enchantment. 
And  now  it  had  come  to  her  in  a  way  altogether 
unexpected,  and  in  a  measure  beyond  all  her 
calculations.  It  had  come  to  her,  bringing  with 
it  something  else. 

She  seemed  in  a  dream  during  that  time : 
yes,  she  was  slipping  farther  away  from  her  own 
people,  and  farther  away  from  the  exciseman. 
She  had  never  been  very  near  to  him,  but  lately 
the  distance  had  become  doubled.  When  she 
chanced  to  meet  him,  her  manner  was  more 
than  ordinarily  cold.  If  he  had  chosen  to 
plead  for  himself,  he  might  well  have  asked 
what  he  had  done  to  her  that  he  should  deserve 
to  be  treated  with  such  bare  unfriendliness. 

One   day  he    met    her.     She    was    riding   the 


AT  THE  GREEN  DA' AGON.  77 

great  white  horse,  and  David  rode  along  beside 
her.  She  chatted  with  him  now  and  again,  but 
there  were  long  pauses  of  silence  between  them. 

"  Father  has  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  old 
Nance,"  she  said  suddenly,  as  she  stroked  the 
old  mare's  head.   "  This  is  my  last  ride  on  her." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  David,  kindly.  "  She  's 
an  old  friend,  isn't  she  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  ridiculous  to  care  so  much," 
Joan  said  ;  "  but  you  know  we  've  had  her  such 
a  time.  And  I  used  to  hang  round  her  neck, 
and  she  would  lift  me  up  and  swing  me." 

"  I  remember,"  said  David,  eagerly.  "  I  've 
often  watched  you.  I  was  always  afraid  you 
would  have  a  bad  fall." 

"  You  ran  up  and  caught  me  once,"  Joan 
said.  "  And  I  was  so  angry  ;  for  it  was  n't 
likely  that  old  Nance  would  have  let  me  fall." 

"  But  how  could  I  be  sure  that  the  little  arms 
were  strong  enough  to  cling  firmly  to  old 
Nance's  neck  ?  "  David  said.  "  So  I  could  n't 
help  being  anxious." 

"  Do   you  remember  when  I  was  lost  in  that 


78  IN    VARYING   MOODS. 

mist,"  Joan  said,  "and  you  came  and  found 
me,  and  carried  me  home  ?  I  was  so  angry  that 
you  would  not  let  me  walk." 

"  You  have  often  been  angry  with  me,"  David 
said,  quietly. 

Joan  made  no  answer.  She  just  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

There  they  were,  these  two,  riding  side  by 
side,  and  yet  they  were  miles  apart  from  each 
other.     David  knew  it,  and  grieved. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


DAVID    LAMENTS. 


F^AVID  knew  it,  and  grieved.  He  knew 
that  Joan's  indifference  was  growing 
apace,  and  that  it  had  taken  to  itself  alarm- 
ing proportions  ever  since  the  historian  had 
been  at  the  Green  Dragon.  He  had  con- 
stantly met  Joan  and  Hieronymus  together,  and 
heard  of  them  being  together,  and  of  course  he 
knew  that  Joan  wrote  to  the  historian's  dicta- 
tion. He  never  spoke  on  the  subject  to  any  one. 
Once  or  twice,  Auntie  Lloyd  tried  to  begin,  but 
he  looked  straight  before  him  and  appeared  not 
to  understand.  Once  or  twice,  some  other  of 
the  folk  made  mention  of  the  good-fellowship 
which  existed  between  Joan  and  the  historian. 
"  Well,  it 's  natural  enough,"  he  said,  quietly. 
'  Joan  was  always  fond  of  books,  and  one  feels 

79 


80  IN    VARYING  MOODS, 

glad  she  can  talk  about  them  with  some  one  who 
is  real  clever." 

But  was  he  glad  ?  Poor  David  !  Time  after 
time  he  looked  at  his  little  collection  of  hooks, 
handling  the  volumes  just  as  tenderly  as  one 
handles  one's  memories,  or  one's  hopes,  or  one's 
old  affections.  He  had  not  added  to  the  library 
since  he  had  spoken  to  Hieronymus  and  asked 
his  advice  on  the  choice  of  suitable  subjects. 
He  had  no  heart  to  go  on  with  a  hobby  which 
seemed  to  have  no  comfort  in  it. 

To-night  he  sat  in  his  little  sitting-room  smok- 
ing his  pipe.  He  looked  at  his  books  as  usual, 
and  then  locked  them  up  in  his  oak  chest.  He 
sat  thinking  of  Joan  and  Hieronymus.  There 
was  no  bitterness  in  David's  heart  ;  there 
was  only  sorrow.  He  shared  with  others  a 
strong  admiration  for  Hieronymus,  an  admira- 
tion which  the  historian  never  failed  to  win, 
though  it  was  often  quite  unconsciously  given, 
and  always  quiet  unconsciously  received.  So 
there  was  only  sorrow  in  David's  heart,  and  no 
bitterness. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  81 

The  clock  was  striking  seven  of  the  evening, 
when  some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  and  Hie- 
ronymus  came  into  the  room.  He  was  in  a  par- 
ticularly genial  mood,  and  puffed  his  pipe  in 
great  contentment.  He  settled  down  by  the 
fireside  as  though  he  had  been  there  all  his  life, 
and  chatted  away  so  freely  that  David  forgot 
his  own  melancholy  in  his  pleasure  at  having 
such  a  bright  companion.  A  bottle  of  whisky 
was  produced,  and  the  cosiness  was  complete. 

"  Now  for  the  books  !  "  said  Hieronymus. 
"  I  am  quite  anxious  to  see  your  collection. 
And  look  here  :  I  have  made  a  list  of  suitable 
books  which  any  one  would  like  to  have.  Now 
show  me  what  you  have  already  bought." 

David's  misery  returned  all  in  a  rush,  and  he 
hesitated. 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  about  the  books  now," 

he  said. 

What     nonsense  !  "       said      Hieronymus. 

'  You  're  not  shy  about  showing  them  to  me  ?  I 

am  sure  you  have  bought   some   capital  good 

ones." 
6 


82  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"Oh,  it  was  n"t  that,"  said  David,  quietly,  as 
he  unlocked  the  oak  chest,  and  took  out  the 
precious  volumes  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  In 
spite  of  himself,  however,  some  of  the  old  eager- 
ness came  over  him,  and  he  stood  by,  waiting 
anxiously  for  the  historian's  approval.  Hierony- 
mus  groaned  over  Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry,  and 
Locke's  Human  Understanding,  and  Defoe's 
History  of  the  Plague^  and  Cowper,  and  Hannah 
More.  He  groaned  inwardly,  but  outwardly  he 
gave  grunts  of  encouragement.  He  pan..! 
David  on  the  shoulder  when  he  found  Selections 
from  Browning,  and  he  almost  caressed  him 
when  he  discovered  Si/as  Marner, 

Yes,  David  was  proud  of  his  treasures  :  each 
one  of  them  represented  to  him  a  whole  world 
of  love  and  hope  and  consolation. 

Hieronymus  knew  for  whom  the  books  were 
intended,  and  he  was  touched  by  the  exciseman's 
quiet  devotion  and  pride.  He  would  not  on 
any  account  have  hurt  David's  feelings  ;  he 
would  have  praised  the  books,  however  unsuit- 
able they  might  have  seemed  to  him. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  83 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  you  've  done 
capitally  by  yourself.  You  've  chosen  some 
excellent  books.  Still,  this  list  may  help  you  to 
go  on,  and  I  should  advise  you  to  begin  with 
Green's  History  of  the  English  People" 

David  put  the  volumes  back  into  the  oak 
chest. 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  about  buying  any 
more,"  he  said,  sadly.     "  It 's  no  use." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Hieronymus. 

David  looked  at  the  historian's  frank  face, 
and  felt  the  same  confidence  in  him  which  all 
felt.  He  looked,  and  knew  that  his  man  was 
loyal  and  good. 

"  Well,  it 's  just  this,"  David  said,  quite  simply. 
"  I  've  loved  her  ever  since  she  was  a  baby-child. 
She  was  my  own  little  sweetheart  then.  I  took 
care  of  her  when  she  was  a  wee  thing,  and  I 
wanted  to  look  after  her  when  she  was  a  grown 
wom-^n.  It  has  just  been  the  hope  of  my  life  to 
make  Joan  my  wife." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  straight 
into  the  fire. 


84  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"I  know  she  is  different  from  others,  and 
«  leverer  than  any  of  us  here,  and  all  that.  I 
know  she  is  always  longing  to  get  away  from 
Little  Stretton.  But  I  thought  that  perhaps  we 
might  be  happy  together,  and  that  then  she 
would  not  want  to  go.  But  I  've  never  been 
quite  sure.  I've  just  watched  and  waited. 
I  've  loved  her  all  her  life.  When  she  was  a 
wee  baby  I  carried  her  about,  and  knew  how  to 
stop  her  crying.  She  has  always  been  kinder 
to  me  than  to  any  one  else.  It  was  perhaps 
that  which  helped  me  to  be  patient.  At  least, 
I  knew  she  did  not  care  for  any  one  else.  It 
was  just  that  she  did  n't  seem  to  turn  to  any  one." 

He  had  moved  away  from  Hieronymus,  and 
stood  knocking  out  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

Hieronymus  was  silent. 

"  At  least,  I  knew  she  did  not  care  for  any 
one  else,"  continued  David,  "  until  you  came. 
Now  she  cares  for  you." 

Hieronymus  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Surely,  surely  you  must  be  mistaken,"  he 
said. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  85 

David  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  'm  not  mistaken. 
And  I  'm  not  the  only  one  who  has  noticed  it. 
Since  you  've  been  here,  my  little  Joan  has  gone 
farther  and  farther  away  from  me." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Hieronymus.  He  had 
taken  his  tobacco-pouch  from  his  pocket,  and 
was  slowly  filling  his  pipe. 

"  I  have  never  meant  to  work  a  harm  to  her 
or  you,  or  any  one,"  the  historian  said,  sadly. 
"  If  I  had  thought  I  was  going  to  bring  trouble  to 
any  one  here,  I  should  not  have  stayed  on.  But 
I  've  been  veryhappy  amongst  you  all, and  you  've 
all  been  good  to  me  ;  and  as  the  days  went  on, 
I  found  myself  becoming  attached  to  this  little 
village.  The  life  was  so  simple  and  refreshing, 
and  I  was  glad  to  have  the  rest  and  the  change. 
Your  little  Joan  and  I  have  been  much  together, 
it  is  true.  She  has  written  to  my  dictation,  and 
I  found  her  so  apt  that,  long  after  my  hand 
became  well  again,  I  preferred  to  dictate  rather 
than  to  write.  Then  we  've  walked  together,  and 
we  've  talked  seriously  and  merrily,  and  sadly  too. 


86  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

\\C  've  just  been  comrades  :  nothing  more.  She 
seemed  to  me  a  little  discontented,  and  I  tried 
to  interest  her  in  things  I  happen  to  know,  and 
so  take  her  out  of  herself.  If  I  had  had  any  idea 
that  I  was  doing  more  than  that,  I  should  have 
left  off  at  once.     I  hope  you  don't  doubt  me." 

"  I  believe  every  word  you  say,"  David  said, 
warmly. 

"  I  am  grateful  for  that,"  Hieronymus  said, 
and  the  two  men  grasped  hands. 

"  If  there  is  anything  I  could  do  to  repair  my 
thoughtlessness,"  he  said,  "  I  will  gladly  do  it. 
But  it  is  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  and  what 
to  say.  For  perhaps,  after  all,  you  may  be  mis- 
taken." 

The  exciseman  shook  his  head. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  mistaken.  It  has 
been  getting  worse  ever  since  you  came.  There 
is  nothing  to  say  about  it  ;  it  can't  be  helped. 
It 's  just  that  sort  of  thing  which  sometimes  hap- 
pens :  no  one  is  to  blame,  but  the  mischief  is 
done,  all  the  same.  I  don't  know  why  I  've 
told  you  about  it.     Perhaps  I  meant  to,  perhaps 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  87 

I    did  n't.      It  seemed  to   come  out  naturally 
enough  when  we  were  talking  of  the  books." 

He  was  looking  mournfully  at  the  list  which 
Hieronymus  had  drawn  out  for  him. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  's  any  use  to  me,"  he  said. 

He  was  going  to  screw  it  up  and  throw  it  into 
the  fire,  but  the  historian  prevented  him. 

"  Keep  it,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  You  may  yet 
want  it.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  go  on  collect- 
ing a  library.  I  should  go  on  patiently  adding 
book  after  book,  and  with  each  book  you  buy, 
buy  a  little  hope  too.  Who  knows  ?  Some  day 
your  little  Joan  may  want  you.  But  she  will 
have  to  go  out  into  the  world  first  and  fight  her 
battles.  She  is  one  of  those  who  must  go  out 
into  the  world  and  buy  her  experiences  for 
herself.  Those  who  hinder  her,  are  only  hurting 
her.  Don't  try  to  hinder  her.  Let  her  go. 
Some  day  when  she  is  tired,  she  will  be  glad 
to  lean  on  some  one  whom  she  can  trust.  But 
she  must  be  tired  first,  and  thus  find  out  her 
necessity.  And  it  is  when  we  find  out  our  ne- 
cessity that  our  heart  cries  aloud.     Then  it  is 


88  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

that  those  who  love  us  will  not  fail  us.  They 
will  be  to  us  like  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in 
a  weary  land.'' 

I  )a\  id  made  no  answer,  but  he  smoothed  out 
the  crumpled  piece  of  paper  and  put  it  carefully 
into  his  pocket-book. 


CHAPTER  X. 


HIERONYMUS    SPEAKS. 


TTIERONYMUS  was  unhappy:  the  excise- 
man might  or  might  not  be  mistaken,  but 
the  fact  remained  that  some  mischief  had  been 
done,  inasmuch  as  David  Ellis's  feelings  were 
wounded.  Hieronymus  felt  that  the  best  thing 
for  him  to  do  was  to  go,  though  he  quite  deter- 
mined to  wait  until  he  saw  the  hill-ponies  gath- 
ered together.  There  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  hasten  away  as  though  he  were  ashamed 
of  himself.  He  knew  that  not  one  word  had 
been  spoken  to  Joan  which  he  now  wished  to 
recall.  His  position  was  a  delicate  one.  He 
thought  seriously  over  the  matter,  and  wondered 
how  he  might  devise  a  means  of  telling  her  a 
little  about  his  own   life,  and  thus  showing  her, 

without  seeming  to    show,  her  that    his   whole 

89 


go  JN    VARYING  MOODS. 

heart  was  filled  with  the  memories  of  the  past. 
He  could  not  say  to  Joan  :  "  My  little  Joan,  my 
little  secretary,  they  tell  me  that  I  have  been 
making  havoc  of  your  heart.  Now  listen  to  me, 
child.  If  it  is  not  true,  then  I  am  glad.  And 
if  it  is  true,  I  am  sad  :  because  I  have  been 
wounding  you  against  my  knowledge,  and  put- 
ting you  through  suffering  which  I  might  so 
easily  have  spared  you.  You  will  recover  from 
the  suffering  ;  but  alas  !  little  Joan,  that  I 
should  have  been  the  one  to  wound  you  !  " 

He  could  not  say  that  to  her,  though  he  would 
have  wished  to  speak  some  such  words. 

But  the  next  morning  after  his  conversation 
with  David  Ellis,  he  sat  in  the  parlour  of  the 
(ireen  Dragon,  fondling  the  ever-faithful  Gam- 
boge. Joan  Hammond  looked  up  once  or 
twice  from  her  paper,  wondering  when  the  his- 
torian would  begin  work.  He  seemed  to  be 
taking  a  long  time  this  norning  to  rouse  him- 
self to  activity. 

"  I  shall  take  Gamboge  with  me  when  I  go,"' 
he  said  at   last.     "  I  've  bought   her  for  half-a- 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  Ql 

crown.     That  is  a  paltry  sum  to  give  for  such  a 
precious  creature." 

"Are   you    thinking  of   going  then?"  asked 

Joan,  fearfully. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  I  must  just  wait  to 
see  those  rascals  the  hill-ponies,  and  then  I 
must  go  back  to  the  barbarous  big  world,  into 
which  you  are  so  anxious  to  penetrate." 

"  Father  has  determined  to  sell  Nance,"  she 
said,  sadly,  "  so  I  can  't  saddle  the  white  horse 
and  be  off." 

"  And  you  are  sorry  to  lose  your  old  friend?  ,! 

he  said,  kindly. 

"  One    has    to     give     up     everything,"    she 

answered. 

"  Not  everything,"  Hieronymus  said.  "  Not 
the  nasty   things,  for   instance— only    the   nice 

things  !  " 

Joan  laughed,  and  dipped  her  pen   into   the 

ink. 

"  The  truth  of  it  is,  I  'm  not  in  the  least  in- 
clined to  work  this  morning,"  said  Hieronymus. 

Joan  waited,  the  pen   in   her  hand.     He  had 


92  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

said  that  so  many  times  before,  and  yet  he  had 
always  ended  by  doing  some  work  after  all. 

"  I  believe  that  my  stern  task-mistress,  my 
dear  love  who  died  so  many  years  ago,  I  be- 
lieve that  even  she  would  give  me  a  holiday  to- 
day," Hieronymus  said.  "And  she  alw 
claimed  so  much  work  of  me  ;  she  was  never 
satisfied.  I  think  she  considered  me  to  be  a 
lazy  fellow,  who  needed  spurring  on.  She  had 
great  ambitions  for  me;  she  believed  every- 
thing of  me,  and  wished  me  to  work  out  her 
ambitions,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  fame  and 
the  name,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  good  it  does 
us  all  to  grapple  with  ourselves." 

He  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  a  small  minia- 
ture of  a  sweet-looking  woman.  It  was  a  spirit- 
ual face,  with  tender  eyes  :  a  face  to  linger  in 
one's  memory. 

"  When  she  first  died,"  Hieronymus  con- 
tinued, as  though  to  himself,  "  I  could  not  have 
written  a  line  without  this  dear  face  before  me. 
It  served  to  remind  me  that  although  I  was  un- 
happy and  lonely,  I  must  work  if  only  to  please 


A  T  THE  GREEN  BRA  GON.  93 

her.  That  is  what  I  had  done  when  she  was 
alive,  and  it  seemed  disloyal  not  to  do  so  when 
she  was  dead.  And  it  was  the  only  comfort  I 
had  ;  but  a  strong  comfort,  filling  full  the  heart. 
It  is  ten  years  now  since  she  died  ;  but  I 
scarcely  need  the  miniature  ;  the  dear  face  is 
always  before  me.  Ten  years  ago,  and  I  am 
still  alive,  and  sometimes,  often  indeed,  very 
happy.  She  would  have  wished  me  to  be 
happy  :  she  was  always  glad  when  I  laughed 
heartily,  or  made  some  fun  out  of  nothing. 
'  What  a  stupid  boy  you  are  ! '  she  would  say. 
But  she  laughed  all  the  same.  We  were  very 
happy  together,  she  and  I  ;  we  had  loved  each 
other  a  long  time,  in  spite  of  many  difficulties 
and  troubles.  But  the  troubles  had  cleared, 
and  we  were  just  going  to  make  our  little  home 
together,  when  she  died." 

There  was  no  tremor  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke. 

"We  enjoyed  everything,"  he  went  on; 
"  every  bit  of  fun,  every  bit  of  beauty,  —  the 
mere  fact  of  living  and  loving,  the  mere  fact  of 
the  world  being  beautiful,  the  mere  fact  of  there 


(>4  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

being  so  much  to  do  and  to  strive  after.  I  was 
not  very  ambitious  for  myself.  At  one  time  I 
had  cared  greatly  ;  then  the  desire  had  left  me. 
But  when  she  first  came  into  my  life,  she  roused 
me  from  my  lethargy  ;  she  loved  me,  and  did 
not  wish  me  to  pause  one  moment  in  my  life's 
work.  The  old  ambitions  had  left  me,  but  for 
her  sake  I  revived  them  ;  she  was  my  dear  good 
angel,  but  always,  as  I  told  her,  a  stern  taskgiver. 
Then  when  she  was  gone,  and  I  had  not  her 
dear  presence  to  help  me,  I  just  felt  I  could  not 
go  on  writing  any  more.  Then  I  remembered 
how  ambitious  she  was  for  me,  and  so  I  did  not 
wait  one  moment.  I  took  up  my  work  at  once, 
and  have  tried  to  earn  a  name  and  a  fame  for 
her  sake." 

He  paused,  and  stirred  the  fire  uneasily. 

"  It  was  very  difficult  at  first,"  he  continued  ; 
"  everything  was  difficult.  And  even  now,  after 
ten  years,  it  is  not  always  easy.  And  I  cared  so 
little.  That  was  the  hardest  part  of  all  :  to 
learn  to  care  again.  But  the  years  pass,  and  we 
live  through  a  tempest    of  grief,  and  come  out 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  95 

into  a  great  calm.  In  the  tempest  we  fancied 
we  were  alone  ;  in  the  calm  we  know  that  we 
have  not  been  alone  :  that  the  dear  face  has 
been  looking  at  us  lovingly,  and  the  dear  voice 
speaking  to  us  through  the  worst  hours  of  the 
storm,  and  the  dear  soul  knitting  itself  closer 
and  closer  to  our  soul." 

Joan  bent  over  the  paper. 

"  So  the  days  have  passed  into  weeks  and 
months  and  years,"  he  said,  "  and  here  am  I, 
still  looking  for  my  dear  love's  blessing  and  ap- 
proval ;  still  looking  to  her  for  guidance,  to  her 
and  no  one  else.  Others  may  be  able  to  give 
their  heart  twice  over,  but  I  am  not  one  of  those. 
People  talk  of  death  effacing  love  !  As  though 
death  and  love  could  have  any  dealings  the  one 
with  the  other  !  They  always  were  strangers  ; 
they  always  will  be  strangers.  So  year  after 
year  I  mourn  for  her,  in  my  own  way,  happily, 
sorrowfully,  and  always  tenderly  ;  sometimes 
with  laughter,  and  sometimes  with  tears.  When 
I  see  all  the  beautiful  green  things  of  the  world, 
and  sing  from  very  delight,  I  know  she  would  be 


<)6  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

glad.     When  I  make  a  good  joke  or  turn  a  <!< 
sentence,   I  know  she  would  smile  her  praise. 
When  I  do  m)  work  weft,  I  know-  she  would  be 
satisfied.     And  though  I  may  fail  in  all  I  under- 

tak(  .  still  there  is  the  going  on  trying.  Thus  I 
am  always  a  mourner,  offering  to  her  just  that 
kind  of  remembrance  which  her  dear  beautiful 
soul  would  cherish  most." 

He  was  handling  the  little  miniature. 

"May  1  see  the  face  ?"  Joan  asked,  very  gently. 

He  put  the  miniature  in  her  hands.  She 
looked  at  it,  and  then  returned  it  to  him,  almost 
reverently. 

"  And  now,  little  secretary,"  he  said,  in  his 
old  bright  way,  "  I  do  believe  I  could  do  some 
work  if  f  tried.  It's  only  a  question  of  will- 
power. Come,  dip  your  pen  in  the  ink,  and 
write  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

He  dictated  for  nearly  an  hour,  and  then  Joan 
slipped  off  quickly  home. 

Up  in  her  little  bedroom  it  was  all  in  vain  that 
she  chased  the  tears  from  her  face.  They  came 
again,  and  they  came  again. 


AT  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  97 

"  He  has  seen  that  I  love  him,"  she  sobbed. 
"  And  that  was  his  dear  kind  way  of  telling  me 
that  I  was  a  foolish  little  child.  Of  course  I  was 
a  foolish  little  child,  but  I  could  n't  help  it  ! 
Indeed  I  could  n't  help  it.  And  I  must  go  on 
crying.     No  one  need  know." 

So  she  went  on  crying,  and  no  one  knew. 


CHAPTER   XI. 


HIERONYMUS    GOES. 


'THEY  were  captured,  those  little  wretches  the 
hill-ponies,  having  been  chased  down  from 
all  directions,  and  gathered  together  in  the  en- 
closure set  apart  for  their  imprisonment.  There 
they  were,  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  and  confin'd,  some 
of  them  distressed,  and  all  of  them  highly  in- 
dignant at  the  rough  treatment  which  they  had 
received.  This  gathering  together  of  the  wild 
ponies  occurred  two  or  three  times  in  the  year, 
when  the  owners  assembled  to  identify  their 
particular  herd,  and  to  re-impress  their  mark  on 
the  ponies  which  belonged  to  them.  It  was  no 
easy  matter  to  drive  them  down  from  the  hills  ; 
though  indeed  they  came  down  willingly  enough 
at  night  to  seek  what  they  might  devour.  Then 
one  might  h<  ar  their  little  feet  pattering  quickly 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  99 

over  the  ground,  helter-skelter  !  The  villagers 
were  well  accustomed  to  the  sound.  "  It 's  only 
the  hill-ponies,  the  rascals  ! "  they  would  say. 
But  when  they  were  wanted,  they  would  not 
come.  They  led  the  beaters  a  rare  dance  over 
hill  and  dale  ;  but  it  always  ended  in  the  same 
way.  Then,  after  four  or  five  years  of  life  on 
the  hills,  their  owners  sold  them,  and  that  was 
the  end  of  all  their  fun,  and  all  their  shagginess 
too. 

Hieronymus  stood  near  the  enclosure  watch- 
ing the  proceedings  with  the  greatest  interest. 
The  men  were  trying  to  divide  the  ponies  into 
groups,  according  to  the  mark  on  their  backs. 
But  this  was  no  easy  matter  either  :  the  little 
creatures  kicked  and  threw  themselves  about  in 
every  direction  but  the  right  one,  and  they  were 
so  strong  that  their  struggles  were  generally  suc- 
cessful. The  sympathies  of  Hieronymus  went 
•with  the  rebels,  and  he  was  much  distressed 
when  he  saw  three  men  hanging  on  to  the  tail  of 
one  of  the  ponies,  and  trying  to  keep  him  back 
from  another  group. 


ioo  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

"  I  say,  you  there  !  "  he  cried,  waving  his 
stick.     "  I  can't  stand  that." 

Mrs.    Benbow,  who  was   standing  near  him, 
laughed,  and  called  him  to  order. 

"  Now  don't  you  be  meddling  with  what  you 
don't  understand,"  she  said.  "  You  may  know 
a  good  deal  about  books,  but  it 's  not  much  you  '11 
know  about  hill-ponies." 

"  That's  quite  true,"  said  Hieronymus,  humbly. 

"  Come  along  with  me  now,"  commanded  Mrs. 
Benbow,  "  and  help  me  buy  a  red  pig !  " 

Nothing  but  a  red  pig  would  have  made 
Hieronymus  desert  the  hill-ponies.  A  red  pig 
was  of  course  irresistible  to  any  one  in  his 
senses  ;  and  the  historian  followed  contentedly 
after  the  landlady  of  the  Green  Dragon.  She 
made  her  way  amongst  the  crowds  of  people 
who  had  come  to  this  great  horse-fair,  which 
was  the  most  important  one  of  the  whole  year. 
Hieronymus  was  much  interested  in  everyone 
and  everything  he  saw  ;  he  looked  at  the  horses 
and  sheep  and  cows,  and  exchanged  conve? 
Hon  with  any  one  who  would  talk  to  him. 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  101 

"There  's  a  deal  of  money  will  change  hands 
to-day,"  said  a  jolly  old  farmer  to  him.  "  But 
prices  be  dreadful  low  this  year.  Why,  the  pigs 
be  going  for  a  mere  nothing." 

"  I  'm  going  to  buy  a  pig,"  Hieronymus  said, 
proudly,  "  a  red  one." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  farmer,  looking  at  him  with 
a  sort  of  indulgent  disdain,  "  't  is  a  breed  as  I 
care  nothing  about." 

Then  he  turned  to  one  of  his  colleagues,  evi- 
dently considering  Hieronymus  rather  a  feeble 
kind  of  individual,  with  whom  it  was  not  profit- 
able to  talk. 

The  historian  was  depressed  for  the  moment, 
but  soon  recovered  his  spirits  when  he  saw  the 
fascinating  red  pigs.  And  his  pride  and  con- 
ceit knew  no  bounds  when  Mrs.  Benbow 
actually  chose  and  bought  the  very  animal 
which  he  had  recommended  to  her  notice.  He 
saw  David  Ellis,  and  went  to  tell  him  about  the 
pig.  The  exciseman  laughed,  and  then  looked 
sad  again. 

"  My  little  Joan   is   very  unhappy,"  he  said, 


lofl  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

half  in  a  whisper.  "The  old  white  horse  is  to 
be  sold.  Do  you  see  her  there  yonder?  How 
I  wish  I  could  buy  the  old  mare  and  give  her  to 
Joan  !  " 

"  That  would  be  a  very  unwise  thing  for  you 
to  do,"  said  Hieronymus. 

'  Yes,"  said  David,  "  And  do  you  know,  I  Ve 
been  thinking  of  what  you  said  about  her  going 
out  into  the  world.  And  I  found  this  advertise- 
ment.    Shall  I  give  it  to  her  ?  " 

Hieronymus  looked  at  it. 

"  You  're  a  dear  fellow,  David,"  he  said, 
warmly.  "  Yes,  give  it  to  her.  And  I  too  have 
been  thinking  of  what  you  said  to  me.  I've 
told  her  a  little  of  my  story,  and  she  knows  now 
how  my  heart  is  altogether  taken  up  with  my 
past.  So  if  I  've  done  any  harm  to  her  and  you, 
I  have  tried  to  set  it  right.  And  to-morrow  1 
am  going  home.  You  will  see  me  off  at  the 
station  ?  " 

"  I '11  be  there,"  said  the  exciseman. 

But  there  was  no  sign  in  his  manner  that  he 
wished  to  be  rid  of  Hieronymus.     The  histo- 


AT   THE  GREEN  DRAGON.  103 

rian,  who  all  unconsciously  won  people's  hearts, 
all  unconsciously  kept  them  too.  Even  Auntie 
Lloyd,  to  whom  he  had  been  presented,  owned 
that  he  "  had  a  way"  about  him.  (But  then  he 
had  asked  after  her  sciatica  !) 

He  spoke  a  few  words  to  Joan,  who  stood 
lingering  near  the  old  white  mare.  She  had 
been  a  little  shy  of  him  since  he  had  talked  so 
openly  to  her  ;  and  he  had  noticed  this,  and 
used  all  his  geniality  to  set  her  at  her  ease  again. 
This  is  my  last  afternoon,"  he  said  to  her, 
"  and  I  have  crowned  the  achievements  of  my 
visit  here  by  choosing  a  red  pig.  Now  I  'm 
going  back  to  the  big  barbarous  world  to  boast 
of  my  new  acquirements  :  brewing  beer,  eating 
pastry,  drinking  beef-tea,  cutting  up  the  beans, 
making  onion  pickles,  and  other  odd  jobs 
assigned  to  me  by  Queen  Elizabeth  of  the 
Green  Dragon.  Here  she  comes  to  fetch  me, 
for  we  are  going  to  drive  the  red  pig  home  in 
the  cart.  Then  I  'm  to  have  some  tea  with  rum 
in  it,  and  some  of  those  horrible  Shropshire 
crumpets.     Then    if  I  'm  still    alive    after   the 


i"4  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

crumpets  and  the  rum,  there  will  be  a  few  more 
odd  jobs  for  me  to  do,  and  then  to-morrow  I  go. 
As  for  yourself,  little  se<  retary,  you  are  going 
to  put  courage  into  your  heart,  and  fight  your 
battles  well.     Tell  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  and  she  looked  up  brightly, 
though  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  those  words,  '  Hitch  your 
waggon  to  a  star  '  ?  "  he  said.  "  Emerson  was 
right.  The  waggon  spins  along  merrily  then. 
And  now  good-bye,  little  secretary.  You  must 
come  and  see  me  off  at  the  station  to-morrow. 
I  want  all  my  friends  around  me." 

So  on  the  morrow  they  gathered  round  him  : 
Mr.  Benbow,  Mrs.  Benbow,  two  of  the  Malt- 
House  Farm  boys,  the  old  woman  who  kept 
the  grocer's  shop  and  who  had  been  doing  a 
good  trade  in  sweetmeats  since  Hieronymus 
came,  the  exciseman,  and  Joan  Hammond,  and 
old  John  of  the  wooden  leg.  They  were  all 
there,  sorrowful  to  part  with  him,  glad  to  have 
known  him. 

"  If  you  would  only  stay,"  said  Mrs.  Benbow, 


A  T  THE  GREEN  DKA  GON.  105 

"  there  are  so  many  other  odd  jobs  for  you  to 
do  !" 

"  No,  I  must  go,"  said  the  historian.  '  There 
is  an  end  to  everything,  excepting  to  your  beef- 
tea  !     But  I  've  been  very  happy." 

His  luggage  had  increased  since  he  came  to 
Little  Stretton.  He  had  arrived  with  a  small 
portmanteau  ;  he  went  away  with  the  same 
portmanteau,  an  oak  chair  which  Mr.  Benbow 
had  given  him,  and  a  small  hamper  containing 
Gamboge. 

"  Take  care  how  you  carry  that  hamper,"  he 
said  to  the  porter.  "  There  is  a  dog  inside 
undergoing  a  cat  incarnation  !  " 

To  Joan  he  said  :  "  Little  secretary,  answer 
the  advertisement  and  go  out  into  the  world." 

And  she  promised. 

And  to  David  he  said  :  "  When  you  've  fin- 
ished that  book-list,  write  to  me  for  another 
one. 

And  he  promised. 

Then  the  train  moved  off,  and  the  dear  kind 
face  was  out  of  sight. 


106  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

•  ■■••• 

Mrs.  Benbow  went  home  to  do  the  scouring 
and  cleaning. 

David  rode  off  to  Ludlow  and  bought  a 
book. 

Joan  sat  in  her  room  at  the  Malt-House 
Farm  and  cried  her  heart  out.  Then  she 
looked  at  the  advertisement,  and  answered  it. 

"  It  was  kind  of  David,"  she  said. 

So  David  sent  Joan  out  into  the  world. 

The  weeks,  the  months,  seem  long  without 
her.  He  buys  his  books,  and  with  every  new 
book  he  buys  new  comfort.  He  recalls  the 
historian's  words  :  "  Some  day,  when  she  is 
tired,  she  will  be  glad  to  lean  on  some  one 
whom  she  can  trust." 

So  David  waits. 


THE 
PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE 


107 


THE 
PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE. 


^HERE  was  once  an  artist.  He  was  the  only 
son  of  a  pious  mother,  whose  consolation 
in  times  of  trouble  had  been  her  unquestioning 
faith  in  God. 

Wlien  he  was  still  a  child  and  his  talent  had 
begun  to  show  itself,  she  said  within  herself  : 

"  My  son,  my  Pierre,  will  paint  pictures  of  the 
Holy  Mother,  and  the  Saints,  and  the  Blessed 
Christ.  There  have  been  great  religious  painters 
before  him,  but  he  will  be  great  too  ;  and  he 
will  devote  his  talent  to  the  service  of  the 
Church." 

That  was  what  she  wished  for  him.     She  tcld 

him  what  she  wished  him  to  do  and  to  be  ;  and 

he,    aglow   with    her    enthusiasm,    and    himself 

109 


no  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

ardent  by  nature,  caught  the  spirit  of  her  mean- 
ing, and  kept  it  in  his  heart  for  many  years, 
even  after  she  had  passed  away. 

"  I  will  be  a  painter  of  sacred  subjects,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

Then  the  time  went  by,  and  he  earned  for 
himself  fame  by  his  pictures  of  the  Madonna 
and  the  Saints,  and  many  scenes  from  Bible  His- 
tory, and  the  weeping  Magdalene. 

And  a  picture  of  Christ  saying  to  the  woman 
taken  in  adultery:  "Woman,  where  are  those 
thine  accusers  ? " 

There  was  the  mark  of  piety  and  enthusiasm 
in  his  work.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  painted 
a  picture,  but  that  he  believed  what  he  painted. 

Then  one  day  he  began  a  picture  of  the  Cruci- 
fixion. It  was  for  some  altar.  He  intended  to 
show  God  the  Father  supporting  the  arms  of 
God  the  S^n. 

God's  face  was  to  be  the  tenderest  that  human 
heart  could  imagine  and  human  hand  depict  : 
God  who  sent  the  trials,  but  at  the  same  time 
lent  his  own  great   holy  strength  to  help  us  to 


THE  PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE,     in 

bear  the  trials.  The  painter  had  seen  an  old 
stained-glass  window  of  this  subject  :  it  was 
quaint  and  grotesque.  But  his  picture  was  to 
be  something  poetical  ;  yet  so  true,  that  no  one 
looking  at  it  could  believe  that  God  was  not  our 
Helper. 

But  the  painter  lived  in  an  age  of  unbelief. 
The  old  faith,  which  had  been  so  much  to  so 
many  thousands,  was  fast  losing  its  power. 

When  he  first  began  to  think  more  deeply 
about  religion,  he  smiled  at  the  unbelievers. 
He  scoffed  at  them,  as  many  have  done  before. 

"  Wait,"  they  said  to  him,  "  your  turn  will 
come.  To  those  who  think  at  all,  there  comes 
this  time  of  unbelief.  Some  struggle  out  of  their 
doubts — so  they  convince  themselves — and  get 
back-  to  their  old  faith,  because  they  cannot  do 
without  it.  Others,  braver,  face  the  future 
calmly,  and  learn  to  be  strong  without  the  help 
of  religious  stimulant.     Your  turn  will  come." 

But  he  shook  his  head,  and  went  confidently 
back  to  his  work  :  to  his  Saints  and  Madonnas, 
and  dead  Christs. 


112  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

Until  one  day. 

And  on  that  day  the  brush  fell  from  his  hand. 
He  could  not  paint  Cod  the  Father  supporting 

the  arms  of  (iod  the  Son. 

The  Son — who  was  He  ? 

The  Father — who  was  He?  Had  he  ever 
been  known  to  give  us  help  and  strength  in  h^urs 
of  need  ?  Even  supposing  he  fashioned  the 
earth,  what  was  he  doing  now  ?  Did  he,  would 
he,  hear  the  cries  of  distress  to  which  stricken 
humanity  gave  utterance   every  day  ? 

The  painter  put  away  his  brush.  The  light 
of  life  had  faded  from  his  heart.  He  turned  to 
books,  and  read  and  read,  and  every  day  his 
brain  grew  more  bewildered.  He  was  seeking 
in  books  for  the  meaning  of  the  great  problem  : 
that  problem  which  has  distracted  so  many 
brains,  and  stronger  ones  than  the  painterV 

Those  who  knew  him  watched  him.  His  turn 
had  come.  Would  he  struggle  back  to  his  old 
faith,  or  would  he  become  a  free  man  ?  So  the 
time  went  by.  The  picture  of  the  Father  sup- 
porting  the    arms   of   the    Son   was  put  aside. 


THE  PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE.     113 

The  painter  had  wished  at  first  to  burn  it ;  but 
he  just  let  it  lie  there  with  other  unfinished 
pictures.       So  it  lay  there. 

And  the  painter,  who  had  freed  himself  from 
his  old  bondage,  took  up  his  brush  once  more, 
and  painted  secular  subjects.  He  laughed  at 
his  own  old  self. 

"  To  think  that  I  clung  so  long  to  rotten  gar- 
ments !  "  he  said.  "  To  think  that  I  have  been 
deceived  by  fairy  stories,  foolish  traditions,  and 
time-honoured  gossip  !  To  think  that  all  these 
years,  reason,  man's  most  glorious  possession, 
has  been  stifled  and  wellnigh  choked  by  tradi- 
tional sentiment  !  But  now  I  breathe,  and  am 
free.  Now  I  see  that  man  is  God,  and  that  in 
him  is  resident  all  strength  and  power  and  great- 
ness. Man  stands  alone  :  for  himself  and  by 
himself  will  he  work  out  his  own  salvation. 
God  is  the  great  myth,  the  great  delusion." 

Meanwhile  he  worked  at  his  new  pictures. 
Now  and  again  he  was  asked  to  paint  an  altar- 
piece. 

"  Nay,  I  have  done  with  pale-faced  Saints  and 


ii4  IN    VARY  IXC  MOODS. 

Madonnas,"  he  would  say.  "The  legends  of 
the  Bible  have  no  meaning  for  me  now.  I  can- 
not paint  what  I  cannot  believe." 

"Yet  the  legends  of  the  Bible  are  beautiful,'' 
said  some  one  to  him.     "  And  surely  to  the  art 
ist,  all  beautiful  subjects  should  be  acceptable. 
What    has   mere    creed    to   do    with    art?     Art 
should  know  no  limitation." 

But  the  painter  shook  his  head. 

"  My  faith  has  gone,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot 
paint  your  altar-pieces.  God,  the  Holy  Mother, 
the  Blessed  Christ,  are  empty  names  to  me  now. 
They  belonged  to  my  dark  Past.  They  have- 
no  part  in  my  clearer  Present." 

Thus  he  gloried  in  his  new-found  freedom, 
lie  preached  the  gospel  of  soul-emancipation. 

"Ye  slaves  of  dogma  and  doctrine,  throw  oil" 
your  fetters  and  be  men  !  ;'  he  cried. 

He  had  all  the  enthusiasm  and  exaggeration 
of  a  convert. 

For  years  men  had  been  saying  these  very 
words  to  their  fellow-men.  Hundreds  of  years 
ago,  men  had  thrown  off  the  various  fetters  of 


» 


THE  PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE.     115 

the  various  dogmas,  and  had  bravely  faced  the 
desolation  of  loneliness  which  freedom  gives  as 
its  inseparable  gift. 

Yet  the  painter  thought  he  was  the  only  free 
man.  But  that  is  a  way  we  all  have.  We  think 
we  have  unearthed  some  rare  treasure.  Like 
children,  we  hasten  to  show  what  we  have 
found.  And  countless  ages  before  we  were 
born,  countless  men  have  unearthed  that  very 
treasure,  each  one  for  himself. 

So  the  painter  with  his  freedom. 

One  day  an  old  man  came  to  the  painter's 
studio.  He  was  a  man  well  known  in  certain 
circles  as  a  great  thinker  and  philosopher. 
Some  people  called  him  an  atheist ;  but  these 
were  ignorant  folk.  But  others  who  understood 
better,  called  him  one  of  those  "  to  whom  God 
whispers  in  the  ear." 

His  eye  chanced  to  light  on  the  unfinished 
picture  of  God  the  Father  supporting  the  arms 
of  God  the  Son. 

The  painter  hastened  to  make  excuses  for 
this  picture. 


u6  IN    VARYING  MOO/'S. 

"  It  belonged  to  my  Past,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
painting  it,  when  all  at  once  I  began  to  doubt. 
And  then  reason  got  the  better  of  my  senti- 
ment. So  I  laid  the  picture  aside.  I  meant 
to  burn  it.  But  it  had  represented  a  certain 
amount  of  work,  and  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
destroy  it.  So  I  let  it  lie.  But  some  day  I  shall 
destroy  it." 

Then  the  old  man  touched  the  painter  on  the 
arm. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Do  not  de- 
stroy it.  Some  day,  when  you  least  think  it,  you 
will  wish  that  picture." 

"  You  do  not  believe  in  my  stability  ?  "  said 
the  painter.  "  You  think  that  I  am  one  of  those 
who  creep  back  thankfully  to  the  bosom  of  the 
Church?" 

The  old  man  smiled  tenderly. 

"  My  son,  my  son,"  he  whispered,  "  you  and 
I  need  our  God.  We  go  back  to  him  and  learn 
to  know  him  only  when  we  have  freed  oursehrs 
from  the  dogmas  and  doctrines  which  have 
risen  up  as  barriers  between  him  and  us.     We 


THE  PAINTER  AND  HIS  PICTURE.     1 17 

leap  over  the  barriers,  and  the  impetus  takes  us 
farther  than  was  necessary.  Then  we  retrace 
those  few  steps — but  they  are  not  quickly  re- 
traced,— and  then  we  find  God  :  that  great 
Mystery  which  we  call  by  different  names,  yet 
always  meaning  God.  You  will  finish  your  pic- 
ture, my  son.  You  wonder  at  my  words,  but 
you  will  yet  finish  it  :  thinking  different 
thoughts,  working  in  a  different  spirit  :  yet  at 
the  same  picture." 

And  the  painter  shook  his  head. 

"  Never,"  he  said  ;    "  never  !  " 


But  one  day  in  the  years  that  came  after- 
wards, he  chanced  to  look  among  his  old 
canvases.  And  there  lay  the  picture  of  God 
the  Father  supporting  God  the  Son. 

Time  had  mellowed  the  painter  :  time  which 
includes  in  its  power  suffering. 

The  words  of  the  old  philosopher,  now  dead, 
stole  across  his  memory,  like  some  sweet  sound 
remembered. 


n8  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

And  the  painter  set  to  work,  lovingly  and 
patiently.  A  great  peace  came  over  him  as  he- 
worked.  He  had  begun  the  picture  as  a  Fact, 
a  Reality  :  he  finished  it  as  a  Symbol. 

God  was  that  Power,  greater  than  ourselves, 
or  the  noblest  part  of  ourselves,  without  which 
we  could  not  struggle  and  conquer. 

Christ  was  man  :  any  man  or  any  woman 
making  or  attempting  to  make  a  noble  thing  of 
life. 

There  was  an  expression  of  ineffable  tender- 
ness on  the  face  of  the  Father. 

And  there  was  a  strange  mixture  of  suffering 
and  confidence  on  the  face  of  the  Son. 

One  might  have  expected  him  to  whisper  :  "  I 
suffer,  but  all  is  well  with  me  "  ;  just  as  sick 
people,  in  the  midst  of  their  pain,  look  up  and 
smile,  as  though  to  give  reassuring  courage  to 
the  watchers. 

It  was  a  beautiful  picture  :  the  work  of  a 
peaceful  and  pious  mind. 

This  was  the  last  picture  the  artist  ever 
painted. 


THE     UMBRELLA-MENDER 


A  STUDY 


no 


THE  UMBRELLA-MENDER. 


FT  was  a  winter's  evening.  The  clock  of  St. 
Sepulchre  was  striking  six  as  Mr.  Corio- 
lanus  Crocker,  the  umbrella-mender,  rose  from 
his  bench,  laid  aside  his  work,  and  shut  up  his 
shop.  He  then  retired  into  the  little  inner  room, 
made  some  tea,  contrived  a  sandwich5  and  settled 
himself  down  to  an  evening's  enjoyment  with 
his  books.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  lost  in 
the  dear  delights  of  Grote's  Greece ;  for  Mr. 
Crocker  was  a  scholar,  and  looked  such,  even 
when  he  was  repairing  umbrellas.  One  might 
have  expected  him  at  any  given  minute  to  put 
away  his  work,  and  deliver  a  lecture  on  some 
abstruse  subject  :  perhaps  on  the  political  as- 
pects of  the  reign  of  Thothmes  the  Third,  or 

121 


122  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

on  the  Potentialities  of  the  Differential  Cal 
cuius.  One  might  have  expected  this  in  vain, 
since  Mr.  Crocker  was  as  sparing  of  his  words 
as  most  rich  people  are  of  their  money.  He 
was  short  and  shrivelled,  and  not  unlike  a  thin 
umbrella,  a  threadbare,  shabbily-genteel  um- 
brella, with  an  uncompromising  handle,  and 
a  long-drawn  piece  of  elastic,  and  an  ancient 
button,  and  a  well-worn  stick  which  wanted 
r  -tipping. 

Mr.  Crocker  had  a  small  face  provided  with 
small  piercing  eyes.  His  hair  was  brown  and 
scanty.  He  had  a  habit  of  combing  back  this 
hair  with  his  thin  hand  when  he  was  engaged 
in  contemplating  an  invalid  umbrella,  and  won 
dering  whether  it  was  worth  a  new  stick,  or  a 
new  handle,  or  a  new  frame,  or  a  nc\7  silk  or 
alpaca  covering. 

A  piece  of  paper  pasted  on  Mr.  Crocker's 
window  announced  that  no  customers  were 
wanted  after  six  o'clock,  and  the  neighbours 
had  learned  that  it  was  no  light  matter  to  dis- 
turb the  umbrella-mender  when   once  the  shut- 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  123 

ters  of  the  little  shop  had  been  put  up.  He 
was  thus  usually  enabled  to  enjoy  Grote's 
Greece  without  any  possible  fear  of  business- 
annoyances. 

But  this  evening,  just  as  he  was  finishing  an 
account  of  the  battle  of  Salamis,  there  came  a 
loud  ring  at  the  shop-bell.  Mr.  Crocker  did  not 
pay  the  slightest  active  attention  to  this  appeal, 
but  no  doubt  he  was  conscious  of  the  disturb- 
ance, for  he  looked  up  from  his  book,  cast  a  few 
indignant  glances  towards  the  shop-door,  and 
then  poured  himself  out  another  cup  of  tea,  and 
returned  to  Grote  and  Greece.  The  bell  rang 
again,  this  time  louder  and  more  impatiently. 
Mr.  Coriolanus  Crocker  read  on  quietly.  But 
when  the  bell  pealed  a  third  time,  he  darted 
into  the  shop,  opened  the  door  hurriedly,  and 
said  : 

"  I  won't  have  any  customers  after  six  o'clock. 
There  's  another  umbrella-mender  at  the  top  of 
the  road.  Go  to  him,  and  if  he  won't  do  your 
work,  go  to  the  devil,  for  all  I  care  !  " 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  I  have  arrived  at  the 


124  tN    VARYING  MOODS. 

destination  you  mention,"  said  the  ringer  of  the 
bell.  "  Allow  me,  however,  to  assure  you  that 
1  am  not  a  customer,  and  have  not  come  to 
see  you  about  anything  so  uninteresting  as 
umbrellas.  Probably  you  do  not  realise  that  it 
nowing.  I  can  understand  that,  for  you  are 
-t. mding  out  of  the  snow,  and  I  am  standing  in 
the  snow.  Thank  you,  I  will  step  in  and  tell 
you  my  business." 

Mr.  Crocker  raised  the  lamp  to  the  stranger's 
face.  He  looked  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and 
had  the  appearance  of  being  an  unsuccessful 
artist. 

"  I  don't  know  you,"  said  Mr.  Crocker,  put- 
ting the  lamp  on  the  counter.  "  Please  to  tell 
me  your  business  and  then  go  ;  for  my  time 
is  precious,  and  I  don't  care  to  waste  it  on 
strangers." 

"  I  will  be  brief,"  answered  the  stranger,  taking 
a  ring  from  his  pocket.  "  This  is  your  son's  ring. 
You  recognise  it  ?  Well,  then,  he  is  dying,  and 
wishes  to  see  you  before  he  says  farewell  to  this 
world.     You'll  excuse  me,  but  I  think  we  have 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  125 

not  much  time  to  lose.  He  was  well  on  the 
road  when  I  left  him." 

"  My  son  dying,"  murmured  the  umbrella- 
mender,  as  though  to  himself,  "  and  dying  he 
turns  to  me.     I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  said  to  the  artist.  He  took 
his  hat  from  the  peg,  and  together  with  the 
stranger  passed  out  of  the  shop. 

"  You  are  my  son's  friend,  no  doubt  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  curtly.  "  I  'm  low 
enough,  but  I  have  not  sunk  to  that  degradation 
yet." 

"  Do  you  refer  to  his  personal  character  or  to 
his  father's  profession  ?  "  asked  the  umbrella- 
mender,  fiercely. 

"  I  've  nothing  against  his  father's  profession," 
answered  the  stranger.  "  For  my  part,  I  should 
think  it  is  much  better  fun  having  umbrellas  to 
mend  than  having  no  pictures  to  paint.  You  get 
bread  and  cheese  on  the  one,  but  you  starve  on 
the  other.  Then  you  die  and  go  to  hell,  and  not 
-ul  cares," 


126  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

Then  there  was  silence  between  them,  and  the 

snow  fell  fast  and  thick. 

"I  suppose  you  loved  your  son  once?"  the 
stranger  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  have  always  loved  my  son,"  the  umbrella- 
mender  answered. 

"  I  wonder  he  did  not  turn  out  a  better  man, 
if  he  had  some  one  to  care  for  him.  That  ought 
to  make  such  a  difference  to  a  fellow,"  said  the 
stranger,  sadly. 

"  You  are  hard  on  the  dying,"  said  the  um- 
brella-mender. 

"  I  hate  your  son  !  "  muttered  the  stranger.  "  I 
hate  him.  He  has  come  between  me  and  all  my 
chances  of  success  and  happiness.  And  when  he 
is  dead,  I  shall  have  to  go  after  him,  for  it  was  my 
hand  that  struck  him  down." 

Mr.  Crocker  started  back. 

"  Your  hand  ?  "  he  cried.  "  And  you  dare  to 
tell  me  this  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  the  other,  coolly.  "  I  don't 
value  my  life  at  a  brass  farthing.     We  've  got  to 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  127 

die,  and  it  really  does  not  matter  much  whether 
we  die  on  the  gallows  or  on  a  feather-bed.  We 
have  only  a  few  steps  to  go  now.  We  cross  the 
road,  and  turn  down  that  narrow  street  opposite. 
I  beg  of  you  to  take  my  arm,  sir  ;  the  roads  are 
slippery,  and  you  may  fall." 

The  umbrella-mender  shook  off  the  stranger's 
arm. 


a 


Don't  touch  me,"  he  said,  with  a  shudder. 
I  can  understand  you  are  naturally  annoyed 
with  me,"  replied  the  other.  "  It  would  be  too 
absurd  to  suppose  that  a  man  would  be  friends 
with  a  stranger  who  has  murdered  his  son. 
Follow  me  now." 

They  had  arrived  at  a  wretched  house.  The 
door  was  opened  by  a  little  girl,  who  slunk  away 
immediately.  They  groped  their  way  up  some 
rickety  stairs,  and  went  into  a  darkened  room. 
The  artist  struck  a  match  and  lit  a  candle  and 
held  it  over  the  bed. 

"Your  son  is  still  alive,"  he  whispered  to  the 
umbrella-mender.     "  I  am  glad  we  are  not  too 


T23  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

late.  I  feared  we  should  just  miss  him."  Then 
he  closed  the  door  gently,  leaving  the  umbrella- 
mender  bending  over  his  son. 

"  Marius  !  "  the  father  whispered,  as  he  took 
his  son's  hand  and  kissed  it  tenderly.  "  Marius, 
you  know  me  ?  " 

The  dying  man  looked  up. 

"  Dad  !  "  he  murmured,  "  I  'venot  been  much 
of  a  credit  to  you.  Poor  dad  !  and  you  hoped 
for  so  much  from  me.  Well,  it  's  too  late  now. 
But  just  kneel  down,  dad,  and  let  my  head  rest  on 
your  arm.     Just  like  that." 

And  he  died,  with  a  peaceful  smile  on  his  face. 
He  had  been  nothing  but  a  sorrow  to  his  father, 
nothing  but  a  shame.  His  short  life  had  been 
crowded  with  crimes  of  every  description,  except 
murder.  He  did  not  understand  anything  about 
affection,  or  gratitude,  or  honour.  But  all  the 
same,  he  died  witli  a  peaceful  smile  on  his  fat  e, 
his  head  resting,  childlike,  on  his  father's  arm. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  the  artist  came  ba<  k 
into  the  room  and  found  the  umbrella-mender 
kneeling  by  the  bedside.  The  candle  had  burned 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  129 

very  low,  and   the  fire    sent    forth   but  a  feeble 
flicker.     It  was  bitterly  cold. 

The    artist    spoke    gently    to    the   umbrella- 
mender. 

"  I  see  your  son  is  dead,"  he  said,  "  and  of 
couise  I  hold  myself  responsible  for  his  death, 
and  am  prepared  to  pay  any  penalty.  But  mean- 
while you  are  shivering  with  cold.  Let  me 
persuade  you  to  come  nearer  to  the  fireplace, 
and  to  wrap  yourself  in  this  rug  until  I  have 
succeeded  in  rekindling  the  fire.  The  snow  is 
still  falling  fast,  and  the  ground  is  covered  with 
a  white  garment.  But  it  won't  long  remain 
white — that  's  the  pity  of  it.  Do  not  you  think 
so?" 

The  umbrella-mender  withdrew  his  arm  from 
beneath  his  son's  head,  and  suffered  the  stranger 
to  lead  him  to  the  fireside  and  help  him  into  an 
easy-chair.  There  was  a  look  of  intense  pain  on 
the  umbrella-mender's  face.  He  watched  his 
son's  murderer  kneel  down  and  attend  to  the 
fire  ;  he  watched  every  bit  of  stick  put  on  to  it, 

and  once  he  stooped  forward  and  picked  up  a 

9 


i3o  IN   VARYING   MOODS. 

bit  which  had  fallen  from  the  bundle,  and  he 
himself  threw  it  into  the  fire.  But  the  fire 
would  not  draw,  and  so  the  stranger  fetched  a 
newspaper,  and  he  and  the  umbrella-mender 
held  it  before  the  grate,  until  their  patience  and 
perseverance  were  rewarded  by  success. 

"  It  would  be  no  trouble  for  me  to  make  you 
some  coffee,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  was  always 
famous  for  my  coffee.  Your  son  used  to  praise 
it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  umbrella-mender,  half- 
dreamily.  "I  should  like  some.  I  always 
enjoy  a  good  cup  of  coffee.  One  does  not 
often  get  it  good  in  England." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  object  to  my  smoking 
here  ?  "  asked  the  stranger.  "  If  you  think  it  is 
not  quite  reverent,  just  tell  me  so,  and  I  shall 
understand." 

"Smoke  by  all  means,"  replied  the  umbrella- 
mender,  watching  the  young  man  not  unkindly. 

The  bright  light  of  the  fire  fell  full  on  his 
handsome  face  ;  there  was  no  expression  of 
viciousness  or    wickedness,  but  a   sort  of   dull 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  131 

sadness,  as  though  the  young  man  had  honestly 
tried  to  make  a  good  thing  of  life,  and  all  the 
world  had  been  against  him. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  offer  you  a 
cigarette,"  suggested  the  stranger.  'Your  son 
gave  me  these  cigarettes  a  fortnight  ago.  They 
are  not  strong.     Try  them." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  umbrella-mender, 
"  but  I  do  not  smoke  now." 

The  stranger  nodded  pleasantly,  and  put  the 
cigarettes  back  on  the  mantelshelf.  He  moved 
about  very  quietly  preparing  the  coffee,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  comforting  fragrance  filled 
the  room.  The  umbrella-mender  lifted  the  cup 
to  his  lips,  and  drank  long  and  deep. 

"That  was  very  refreshing,"  he  said  to  the 
stranger,  who  had  settled  himself  down  by  the 
fire,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  the  coffee 
on  the  fender.  "  You  certainly  can  make  a 
good  cup  of  coffee." 

Suddenly  he  turned  round  and  said  quickly  : 
"  It  has  just  struck  me  that  you  may  have  added 
poison  to  that  coffee.     I  do  not   really  mind  if 


j 32  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

you  have  done  this,  but  I  should  much  like  to 
know.  It  would  be  quite  natural  for  you  to 
wish  to  poison  me,  since  I  am  probably  the 
only  person  who  knows  that  you  have  murdered 
my  sou.  I  should  not  be  in  the  least  surprised 
or  angry,  so   I  beg  of  you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm, 
almost  caressingly. 

"  The  idea  never  even  entered  my  head,  sir," 
answered  the  young  man.  "  You  might  guess 
that,  because  I  am  drinking  from  the  same 
coffee-pot.  I  beg  of  you  not  to  think  badly  of 
me." 

"  But  you  have  murdered  my  son,"  said  the 
umbrella-mender.  "  He  lies  there,  struck  down 
by  your  hand  ;  at  least,  so  you  tell  me.  And  I 
see  no  reason  why  you  should  invent  such  a 
story  ;  unless,  perhaps,  you  're  mad.  By  the 
way,  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  your 
name." 

"  My  name  is  Bernard  Dene,"  answered  the 
stranger,  taking  his  tobacco-pouch  from  his 
pockets  and  refilling  his  pipe.     "  At  least,  that  is 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  133 

what  I  choose  to  call  myself.  I  thought  that 
was  a  good  name  for  an  artist,  but  it  never 
brought  luck  to  me.  It  is  hard  when  you  have 
the  power  and  the  wish  to  work,  and  you  cannot 
get  anything  to  do.  But  I  expect  you  do  not 
know  what  that  means  ;  you  are  not  unlucky." 

"Not  particularly  so,"  said  the  umbrella- 
mender,  sipping  his  coffee.  "  Now  I  wish  you 
would  oblige  me  by  telling  me  something  about 
yourself.  And  I  should  very  much  like  to 
know  why  you  have  killed  my  son." 

Then  the  young  man  drew  closer  to  the  old 
man,  and  told  him  about  himself.  He  had  had 
no  chances  in  life,  and  if  there  were  a  God 
of  heaven  and  earth,  as  some  people  seemed  to 
think,  that  God  of  heaven  and  earth  had  a 
strange  way  of  taking  care  of  those  who  needed 
help,  and  hope,  and  encouragement.  No  one 
had  ever  cared  for  him  until  he  met  a  sweet 
woman  whom  he  married.  And  she  had  died 
in  giving  birth  to  his  little  girl.  That  was  six 
years  ago.  He  had  never  known  his  father  ; 
and  as  for  his  mother,  it  was  very  little  she  had 


134  JN   VARYING  Moons. 

troubled  herself  about  him.  Nothing  had  ever 
prospered  with  him  :  neither  art,  nor  love,  nor 
friendship.     Even  his  little  girl  did  not  love  him  ; 

she  had  always  seemed  frightened  of  him ; 
why,  he  could  not  guess.  Still  he  had  tried  to 
make  the  best  he  could  of  life,  until  Marius 
Crocker  came  across  his  path.  The  end  of  it 
was  that  Marius  Crocker  had  betrayed  the 
woman  whom  Bernard  Dene  loved,  and  for 
whom  he  was  trying  to  work,  hoping  that  he 
might  at  last  conquer  failure,  and  win  happiness 
and  peace.  The  man  who  had  robbed  him  of 
this  last  hope  deserved  to  die.  He  had  told 
him  that  he  would  kill  him,  and  Marius  Croc :ker 
had  jeered  at  him.  Well,  he  would  not  jeer  any 
more  now. 

'  That  is  my  story,  sir,"  he  cried,  excitedly. 
"  You  see,  I  was  obliged  to  kill  your  son.  For- 
give me,  sir ;  I  say  it  with  all  due  deference  to 
you  :  but  the  world  is  better  without  him.  But  I 
fear  I  have  hurt  your  feelings.    I  am  very  sorry." 

The  umbrella-mender  stirred  restlessly  in  his 
chair. 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  135 

"  No,  you  have  not  hurt  my  feelings,"  he 
murmured,  half  to  himself,  "  for  Marius  was 
never  a  son  to  me.  In  fact,  I  never  knew  what 
a  son's  love  meant.  I  have  only  read  of  such 
love.  But  his  life  was  different  from  yours  :  he 
had  every  care,  every  thought  bestowed  on  him. 
But  I  feel  sure  that  nothing  could  ever  have 
made  him  a  good  man.  He  had  not  the  genius 
for  being  good,  just  as  I  have  not  the  genius  for 
painting.  He  broke  his  mother's  heart,  and 
she  died.  He  broke  my  heart  ;  but  you  see  I 
live  on.  Whilst  I  had  money,  Marius  robbed 
me.  So  I  became  poor,  knowing  that  this  was 
my  one  chance  of  peace.  When  he  realised 
that  I  had  no  more  money  to  give,  he  left  me 
alone,  and  that  was  the  only  merciful  thing  he 
ever  did  for  me.  But  with  all  this  I  loved 
him.  It  is  a  way  we  have,  you  know,  of  loving 
those  who  are  a  life's  sorrow,  a  life's  anxiety 
to  us." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  drew  nearer 
to  the  vouns  man. 

"  And  because  I  loved  him,  and  because  you 


136  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

killed    him,    you    must    die,"  he   said,    slowly. 

Not  that  I  sec  there  is  any  advantage  in  your 
death  :  you,  by  your  death,  cannot  bring  him 
back  to  life  again,  even  if  I  wished  him  to 
come  back  to  life  again.  And  I  do  not  wish  this. 
He  lies  there,  at  least  powerless  to  do  evil,  and 
that  is  a  gain  for  the  world,  and  for  him  too. 
But  all  the  same,  you  must  die,  for  several 
reasons  :  first  of  all,  for  your  own  sake  ;  and 
secondly,  for  my  wife's  sake  ;  and  thirdly,  for 
your  child's  sake.  You  probably  understand 
the  first  and  the  third  reasons  ;  and  as  for  the 
second,  it  is  briefly  this  :  women  are  revengeful. 
I  cannot  hope  that  my  wife's  soul  will  greet  my 
soul  in  perfect  love  if  our  son  Marius  is  una- 
venged. The  joy  of  our  souls'  meeting  will  thus 
be  marred,  just  because,  to  gratify  my  own 
earthly  wish,  I  shall  have  spared  you.  You  see 
plainly  you  must  die.  Rut  I  am  sorry  ;  yes,  I 
am  very  sorry.  You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,  and 
I  could  have  loved  you." 

Bernard  Dene  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  bent  forward  eagerly. 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  137 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  ;  "  it  was  good  of  you 
to  say  that.  I  shall  never  forget  that.  I  sup- 
pose you  would  not  shake  hands  with  me,  would 
you  ? " 

"  By  all  means,"  answered  the  umbrella- 
mender,  warmly  ;  and  he  held  out  his  hand, 
which  Bernard  Dene  grasped  firmly.  "  I  am 
pleased  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  You 
seem  to  be  a  gallant  young  man,  and  you  must 
not  lose  heart  about  yourself.  Ah  !  but  I 
forgot  that  you  had  not  long  to  live.  I  sup- 
pose you  will  kill  yourself  to-night?" 

"Yes;  but  not  for  an  hour  or  so,"  said  the 
artist,  rising.  "  I  should  like  first  to  show  you 
some  of  my  paintings,  such  as  they  are.  I 
made  a  portrait  of  him.  You  may  be  interested 
in  that.  If  it  pleases  you,  I  trust  you  will 
accept  it  as  a  little  remembrance  of  him  and 
me.  What  a  terrible  night  !  It  is  still  snow- 
ing hard.  I  do  not  know  how  you  will  manage 
about  getting  home.  It  was  not  fair  to  bring 
you  out.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  you  to 
remain  here.     I  can  easily  make  up    a  bed  for 


138  JN    VARYIS'il   MOODS. 

you  ;  or  you  could  have  mine.     I  shall  not  n 
mine,  you  know." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  umbrella-mender; 
"but  I  think  I  will  go  home  when  it  leaves  off 
snowing." 

At  that  moment  his  eye  detected  an  umbrella 
resting  against  the  window.  He  rose  from  his 
chair  by  the  fire  and  examined  the  umbrella. 

"  It  wants  mending,"  he  said.  "  The  frame- 
work is  strong,  but  it  ought  to  be  re-covered. 
If  you  go  in  for  usefulness,  and  not  merely  for 
elegance,  I  should  recommend  alpaca.  I  will 
take  it  home  with  me,  and  you  must  call  for  it 
at  your  own  convenience.  I  shall  make  no 
charge.  Ah  !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  had  for- 
gotten.    You  will  not  require  it,  will  you  ?" 

"  Probably  not,"  said  the  artist,  smiling. 
"  There  is  the  portrait  of  your  son.  It  is  the 
best  painting  I  have  ever  done.  Let  us  take 
it  to  the  bedside,  and  then  you  will  see  what  an 
excellent  likeness  it  is." 

So  these  two  men  stood  together  by  the  bed- 
side   of  Marius    Crocker,    now    looking   at    his 


THE   UMBkELLA-MENDER.  139 

features  fixed  in  death,  and  now  looking  at  the 
portrait,  which  seemed  to  be  a  living  thing. 
There  was  life  in  those  eyes,  there  was  life  in 
every  thread  of  hair,  there  was  life  in  every 
vein. 

The  umbrella-mender  turned  away  with  a 
nervous  laugh. 

"Put  it  in  the  dark,"  he  said.  "Put  it 
where  I  cannot  see  it." 

Bernard  Dene  placed  it  with  its  face  towards 
the  wall. 

"  That  laugh  was  the  laugh  of  a  madman,"  he 
said,  half  aloud.  "  I  thought  from  the  first  you 
were  mad,  but  now  I  am  sure  of  it." 

The  umbrella-mender  laughed  again  quietly. 
He  warmed  his  hands  by  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  mind  burning  that  portrait  ?  "  he 
asked,  suddenly.  "The  very  thought  of  it 
troubles  me.  I  insist  on  its  being  burnt  at  once. 
It  is  not  agreeable  of  you  to  hesitate.  It  can- 
not possibly  matter  to  you,  as  you  are  going  to 
die  so  soon.     And  it  matters  very  much  to  me." 

He  darted   forward   and  seized    the  picture 


i4o  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

with  both  hands,  and  would  have  carried  it  at 
once  to  the  fire  ;  but  the  artist,  roused  to  anger, 
roughly  prevented  him,  and  for  a  moment  the 
two  men  struggled  desperately. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  conquered  ; 
for  suddenly  something  fell  from  the  bed  yon- 
der, and  the  artist  looked  at  the  umbrella- 
mender,  and  the  umbrella-mender  looked  at 
the  artist,  and  they  stood  there  together, 
paralysed  with  fear,  holding  the  picture  be- 
tween them;  and  the  candle  gave  a  feeble 
flicker  and  went  out,  and  the  tick  of  the  clock 
during  that  suspense  seemed  to  have  become 
louder  and  more  painfully  regular. 

Then  the  artist  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"What  was  that?"  he  asked.  "Perhaps  he 
is  not  dead  after  all.  We  will  speak  to  him. 
You  call  his  name.  Lean  on  my  arm,  for  you 
are  trembling." 

"  And  you  are  trembling  too,"  whispered  the 
umbrella-mender.  "  Let  me  beseech  you  to  be 
quite  calm.  I  will  speak  to  him.  Marius  ! 
Marius  !  "  he  said,  in  an  awed  tone  of  voice. 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  141 

But  there  was  no  answer.  The  artist  put  the 
portrait  in  the  umbrella-mender's  hands,  and 
struck  a  match  and  lit  another  bit  of  candle, 
and  then  peered  around.  A  book  had  fallen 
from  the  bed.  Bernard  Dene  picked  it  up  and 
showed  it  to  the  umbrella-mender.  He  smiled 
sorrowfully  as  he  turned  over  the  leaves  and 
looked  at  the  simple  illustrations. 

"  I  remember  now,"  he  said.  "  This  is  my 
little  girl's  book.  He  was  fond  of  my  little  girl. 
That  was  the  one  good  thing  about  him.  He 
played  with  her,  and  read  to  her,  and 
talked  to  her,  and  I  do  believe  he  was  as 
tender  as  any  mother  with  her.  But  even  for 
this  I  hated  him,  for  she  loved  him  better  than 
she  loves  me.  I  always  knew  there  was  no 
place  for  me  in  this  world.  He  bought  her  this 
book.  He  probably  cheated  some  one  out  of 
the  money,  and  then  came  home  and  gave  her 
pleasure.  That  was  his  way  of  doing  things. 
By  the  way,  will  you  take  care  of  my  little  girl 
when  I  'm  gone  ?  Her  name  is  Fairy.  You 
cannot  but  love  her." 


142  IN    VARYING   MOODS. 

"  I  was  going  to  propose  that  to  you,"  said 
the  umbrella-mender,  kindly.  "I  should  like 
to  have  her,  and  I  think  1  have  changed  my 
mind  about  that  portrait.  I  should  much  like 
to  have  it." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  answered  the  artist, 
warmly.  "  I  do  not  care  about  my  life,  but  I 
am  jealous  for  the  life  of  my  pictures.  I  leave 
them  all  to  you.  They  will  help  to  pay  you  for 
Fairy.  The  only  one  I  do  not  wish  you  to  sell 
is  the  portrait  of  your  son.  You  must  hang 
that  in  your  umbrella-shop.  Now  I  will  go  and 
fetch  my  little  girl,  and  then  you  must  go  home. 
I  am  sure  you  will  trust  me  to  kill  myself.  I 
flatter  myself  that  I  have  never  broken  my  word 
to  any  one.  I  was  born  a  gentleman,  and  I 
will  die  a  gentleman.     At  least  I  can  do  that." 

The  umbrella-mender  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  trust  you  implicitly,"  he  said.  "  I  will  call 
in  to-morrow  morning  and  look  regretfully  at 
you.  I  shall  always  think  kindly  of  you,  and  I 
hope  you  will  do  the  same  of  me.  I  only  wish 
that  we  had  met  under  happier  circumstances. 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  143 

But  unfortunately  we  have  no  choice  in  these 
matters — no  choice.  I  should  tell  you,  though, 
that  I  think  you  are  undoubtedly  mad.  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  am  an  excellent  judge  of  character. 
I  should  not  make  this  remark  about  you,  but 
that  you  ventured  to  make  it  about  me  ;  and  as 
I  am  not  offended,  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  offended.  After  all,  you  know,  mad- 
ness is  only  a  relative  term,  like  vice  and  virtue, 
and  everything  else.  For  all  we  know,  that 
which  we  call  courage  here  may  be  called  cow- 
ardice in  the  planet  Venus.  And  similarly, 
those  who  are  called  mad  here  may  be  called 
sane  there.  Now  fetch  your  little  girl,  and  we 
will  leave  you  alone  to  die." 

The  artist  closed  the  door  quietly  after  him, 
and  the  umbrella-mender,  finding  himself  alone, 
stood  by  the  bed  where  his  son  lay  dead,  with 
that  peaceful  smile  on  his  face. 

"  I  do  not  know  of  what  you  are  thinking, 
Marius,"  he  whispered,  as  he  put  his  hand  on 
that  cold  forehead,  "  but,  for  my  own  part,  I  am 
glad  you   should  smile  happily.      If  you,  who 


i4-t  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

have  done  so  much  evil,  have  nothing  to  fear  in 
death,  then  we,  who  have  done  less  evil,  Marius, 
we  can  have  nothing  to  fear.  Farewell,  my 
son  ;  I  do  not  grieve  for  you  now.  But  whilst 
you  lived,  my  whole  life  was  one  great  grief  for 
you.  You  bowed  my  head,  you  broke  my  heart. 
But  that  only  made  me  love  you  the  more. 
Farewell,  Marius,  my  son." 

He  kissed  the  cold  forehead,  and,  shivering, 
passed  over  to  the  fireside,  and  once  more  ex- 
amined the  umbrella  which  he  was  going  to  take 
home  to  mend.  He  combed  his  scanty  brown 
hair  with  his  hand,  as  was  his  wont  when  en- 
gaged in  professional  contemplation. 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  "  this  umbrella  has  a 
good  strong  framework.  Marius  never  had  a 
strong  moral  framework.  I  think  human  beings 
are  very  like  umbrellas,  very  like  umbrell 
But  they  do  not  last  so  well,  and  I  do  not  think 
they  ever  can  be  repaired  ;  they  can  only  be 
patched  up  for  a  time." 

He  was  still  holding  the  umbrella  in  his 
hand,  when  Bernard  Dene  came  into  the  room, 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  145 

carrying  a  little  fair-haired  girl  wrapped  in  a 
grey  shawl.   She  was  crying,  and  looked  terrified. 

'  This  is  Fairy,"  the  artist  said.  And  then  he 
added  almost  pathetically  :  "  She  always  cries 
when  she  is  with  me.  She  is  frightened  of  me  ; 
but  she  loved  him  yonder.  Hush,  child  !  you 
must  not  cry.  You  will  wake  him.  He  is  tired, 
and  he  wants  to  sleep.  You  may  kiss  him,  on 
the  forehead. 

"  Oh,  how  cold  !  "  she  said,  shrinking  back, 
when  her  lips  met  the  cold  forehead. 

'Yes,  Fairy,"  her  father  said,  fondling  her 
fair  hair.  "  But  it  is  snowing,  you  know.  Every 
one  is  cold  when  it  is  snowing." 

"  Put  me  down,"  she  begged  ;  "  I  don't  want 
to  be  with  you.  Let  me  go  to  the  little  old 
gentleman." 

"  She  never  loved  me,"  murmured  the  artist ; 
"  it  was  every  one  else  but  me." 

And  he  turned  away  and  wept  his  whole  heart 
out,  whilst  the  umbrella-mender  was  holding  the 
child  in  his  arms,  talking  to  her  as  though  he 
had  known  and  loved  her  all  her  life,  he  who  had 


146  JN  VARYING  MOODS. 

never  before  held  a  child  in  his  arms,  except 
Marius  yonder. 

"  Will  you  come  home  with  me,  little  one  ?  " 
he  asked,  in  a  voice  so  gentle  that  Bernard  Dene 
ceased  weeping  and  listened  to  it. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him,  and  her 
fair  head  rested  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Then  say  '  good-bye  '  to  your  father,"  he 
said,  "and  we  will  go  home  at  once." 

"  Good-bye,  dad,"  she  said,  carelessly.  It  was 
nothing  to  her  to  part  from  him. 

"  You  '11  not  see  me  again,  Fairy,"  he  said, 
sadly. 

"  Sha'n't  I  ? "  she  asked.  "  Do  you  know,  dad, 
if  he  was  n't  so  cold  I  should  kiss  him  again  ?  I 
think  I  'd  like  to." 

So  they  held  her  over  him,  and  she  kissed 
him,  and  put  her  little  arms  around  his  neck. 
Then  they  put  his  last  gift-book  in  her  hand, 
and  the  umbrella-mender  turned  to  the  artist  : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you,"  he  said,  kindly  ; 
"  but  the  hour  has  now  come,  and  we  must  go 
our  own  ways.    You  have  a  long  way  to  go.    Re- 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  147 

member,  I  trust  you  implicitly.  Farewell.  I 
shall  see  you  to-morrow  ;  not  as  you  are  now,  it 
is  true.  I  shall  look  upon  what  you  were  ;  and 
believe  me,  young  man,  I  shall  grieve  for  you. 
Farewell,  Bernard  Dene.  Even  failure  is  only 
a  relative  term,  you  know.  And  that  which  the 
world  calls  failure  may  have  some  better  name 
in  another  planet.  Therefore  do  not  lose  heart 
about  yourself." 

The  artist  bowed  his  head  :  his  right  hand 
rested  on  the  child's  head,  his  left  hand  on  the 
umbrella-mender's  shoulder. 

"  You  have  spoken  very  kindly  to  me,"  he 
said.  "  If  there  be  a  God,  I  trust  that  God  may 
bless  you,  and  make  your  latter  days  happy  and 
peaceful.  As  for  me,  be  assured  that  I  shall 
not  break  my  word  to  you.  I  leave  my  child 
and  my  pictures  to  you.  Shall  I  see  you  home  ? 
The  snow  lies  thick  on  the  ground,  and  you  do 
not  know  the  way  very  well,  and  it  is  bitterly 
cold.  Put  on  my  overcoat.  I  shall  not  want  it, 
for  I  shall  not  go  out  again  unless  you  would 
like  me  to  see  you  home," 


148  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

"  Do  not  trouble  to  do  that,"  said  the  um- 
brella-mender. "  Fairy  and  I  will  easily  find 
our  way.  And  many  thanks  for  the  offer  of  the 
coat.  I  should  be  grateful  for  it.  Do  not  be 
anxious  about  Fairy.  I  will  take  every  care  of 
her.     And  now,  good-night." 

The  artist  followed  them  down  the  creaking 
stairs,  and  opened  the  door  for  them  to  pass  out. 
He  closed  the  door  hastily  after  them.  There 
were  a  few  men  standing  about,  and  some  boys 
were  snowballing  each  other  and  laughing 
lustily,  and  one  of  them,  seeing  the  umbrella- 
mender,  prepared  a  huge  missile,  and  was  just 
about  to  aim  it  at  his  head,  when  a  great  coarse- 
looking  woman  prevented  him. 

"  Hold  hard  !  "  she  cried,  with  an  oath.  "  It 's 
the  mad  painter's  little  daughter.  Snowball  me, 
not  her." 

Fairy  clung  closer  to  the  umbrella-mender. 

"  That  's  what  they  always  call  him,"  she 
whispered,  dreamily,  "  mad,  mad, — what  can  it 
mean  ? " 

But   before    he    could    answer    her,  she  had 


THE   UMBRELLA-MENDER.  I49 

fallen  into  a  gentle  sleep  ;  and  thus  he  bore 
her  along  the  snow-covered  streets,  careful  of 
every  step  he  took,  lest  perchance  he  might 
slip  and  rouse  her  from  her  slumbers.  Her 
little  golden  head  rested  against  his  face,  and 
her  little  hands  tightly  clasped  his  neck,  and 
he  loved  to  feel  her  touch,  remembering  that 
she,  and  she  alone,  had  called  forth  what  good 
there  was  in  his  son's  evil  nature.  The  world 
might  call  him  bad,  for  such  he  had  proved 
himself  to  be  to  the  world  ;  but  this  child  said 
he  was  good,  for  such  he  had  shown  himself 
to  be  to  her.  It  was  something  in  his  favour 
that  he  had  won  this  child's  love  :  maybe  it 
would  go  all  the  better  with  him  hereafter  be- 
cause her  lips  had  touched  his  cold  forehead. 

So  the  umbrella-mender  carried  her  to  the 
umbrella  shop.  He  laid  her  tenderly  on  the 
counter,  well  wrapped  in  the  warm  grey  shawl. 
He  lit  the  lamp,  and  made  up  the  fire  in  the 
ittle  inner  room,  and  then,  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  improvised  a  cosy  bed,  where  he  placed 
er,   just  as  she  was.      Then  he  knelt  by  her 


150  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

and  guarded  her  for  a  while,  smiling  content- 
edly when  he  saw  her  smiling  in  her  sleep. 
After  an  hour  or  so  he  left  her,  and  carefully 
shading  the  lamp  from  her  eyes,  he  settled 
down  to  read  a  few  pages  of  Grote's  Greece 
in  which  he  had  been  engaged  when  he  was 
summoned  away  to  his  son's  death-bed.  He 
tried  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  concentrate 
them  on  the  subject,  which  had  a  great  inter- 
est for  him  ;  but  he  found  himself  thinking 
now  of  the  artist,  now  of  his  son,  and  he 
found  his  eyes  wandering  away  from  the  pages 
of  Grote's  history  to  the  spot  yonder  where 
the  child  was  sleeping  and  smiling,  and  hold- 
ing tightly  in  her  hands  Marius  Crocker's  last 
gift-book. 

"What  will  she  prove?"  he  said  aloud. 
"  Her  father  is  undoubtedly  mad.  It  is  a 
curious  sensation  being  with  a  madman.  My 
heart  stood  still  within  me  when  we  were 
struggling  for  that  picture.  Fancy  him  being 
quite  willing  to  kill  himself  because  he  had 
murdered    Marius  ?     If  he  had  not  been  mad, 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  i*i 

he  would  have  sent  me  after  Marius,  instead 
of  choosing  to  go  himself.  Well,  he  is  a  fine 
young  fellow,  and  it  is  a  pity  he  should  die.'* 

Then  he  laughed  softly. 

"  Of  course  he  was  mad  :  his  eyes  told  me 
that.  Still,  I  am  glad  to  have  made  his  ac- 
quaintance. I  shall  always  think  of  him  with 
pleasure.  I  wonder  how  he  will  get  on  in  the 
next  planet  !  I  trust  he  will  be  happy  and 
successful." 

And  meanwhile  the  artist,  alone  with  the 
dead  man,  wrote  out  his  will.  It  was  briefly 
this  : 

"To  Coriolanus  Crocker,  of  30  Stone  Street, 
umbrella-mender  and  madman,  I  leave  my  little 
girl  Fairy  and  all  my  pictures  signed  with  my 
name.  Any  of  my  pictures,  except  the  por- 
trait of  Marius  Crocker,  whom  I  have  killed, 
may  be  sold  by  Coriolanus  Crocker,  Marius 
Crocker's  father. 

"Bernard  Dene. 

"  24M  January,  1878." 


152  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

"Some  one  ought  to  witness  this,"  he  said 
to  himself,  rising  up  with  the  pen  in  his  hand. 
Ilis  eyes  fell  on  his  silent  companion.  "To 
be  sure  !  "  he  cried.  "  A  capita]  idea  !  Ma- 
rius  himself  shall  witness  my  last  will  and  tes- 
tament." 

He  took  the  cold  hand  in  his  own,  and  pui 
the  pen    between  the  thumb  and  the  first  fin 
ger,    and    made    it    trace    out    the    signature 
"  Marins  Crocker,    dead  man." 

He  smiled,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together, 
as  though  he  were  quite  delighted  with  him- 
self. 

"Now  I  must  kill  myself,"  he  said,  as  he 
dried  the  paper  before  the  fire.  "  And  I  think 
that  is  about  all.  Fancy  that  madman  trusting 
me  to  kill  myself  !  No  sane  man  would  have 
done  such  a  thing.  I  saw  from  the  beginning 
that  he  was  mad.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  look  in  his    eyes." 

Suddenly  he  became  pensive. 
But  the  umbrella-mender  spoke  very  kindly 
to  me,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "and  he  did 


THE    UMBRELLA-MENDER.  153 

not  once  reproach  me  for  having  killed  Ma- 
rius.  In  fact  he  behaved  like  a  gentleman. 
And  he  said  something  about  failure,  which 
struck  me  as  being  comforting.  Well,  I  trust 
that  his  latter  days  may  be  happy  and  peace- 
ful. That  is  what  we  want — peace.  I  have 
never  known  peace  :  there  was  always  confu- 
sion and  tumult  in  my  brain.  Perhaps  death 
brings  peace.  I  shall  soon  find  out  about 
that.     .     .     ." 

The  people  of  the  house  heard  the  report 
of  a  pistol.  They  rushed  up  to  the  artist's 
room,  expecting  to  have  to  break  open  the 
door.  But  it  was  not  even  closed  against 
them  ;  so  they  passed  through  without  delay, 
and  found  the  artist  fallen  on  the  ground. 
They  raised  his  head  gently. 

"  I  killed  that  man  yonder,"  he  whispered. 
"  Let  that  be  clearly  understood.  You  did 
not  know  the  umbrella-mender,  did  you  ?  He 
is  undoubtedly " 

At  that  moment  the  artist  died. 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY. 


TT  was  about  four  in  the  afternoon  when  a 
young  girl  came  into  the  salon  of  the  little 
hotel  at  C.  in  Switzerland,  and  drew  her  chair 
up  to  the  fire. 

"  You  are  soaked  through,"  said  an  elderly 
lady,  who  was  herself  trying  to  get  roasted. 
"  You  ought  to  lose  no  time  in  changing  your 
clothes." 

"  I  have  not  anything  to  change,"  said  the 
young  girl,    laughing.     "Oh,  I    shall  soon    be 

dry!" 

"  Have  you  lost  all  your  luggage  ?  "  asked  the 

lady,  sympathetically. 

"No,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  I  had  none  to 
lose."  And  she  smiled  a  little  mischievously,  as 
though  she  knew   by   instinct  that  her  compan- 

157 


158  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

ion's  sympathy  would  at  once  degenerate  into 
suspicion  ! 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  have  not  a  knap- 
sack," she  added,  considerately.  "  I  have 
walked  a  long  distance — in  fact  from  Z." 

"  And  where  did  you  leave  your  compan- 
ions ?"  asked  the  lady,  with  a  touch  of  forgive- 
ness in  her  voice. 

"  I  am  without  companions,  just  as  I  am  with- 
out luggage,"  laughed  the  girl. 

And  then  she  opened  the  piano,  and  struck  a 
few  notes.  There  was  something  caressing  in 
the  way  in  which  she  touched  the  keys  :  who- 
ever she  was,  she  knew  how  to  make  sweet  music  ; 
sad  music,  too,  full  of  that  undefinable  longing, 
like  the  holding  out  of  one's  arms  to  one's 
friends  in  the  hopeless  distance. 

The  lady  bending  over  the  fire  looked  up  at 
the  little  girl,  and  forgot  that  she  had  brought 
neither  friends  nor  luggage  with  her.  She  hesi- 
tated for  one  moment,  and  then  she  took  the 
childish  face  between  her  hands  and  kissed  it. 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  159 

"  Thank  you,  dear,  for  your  music,"  she  said, 
gently. 

"  The  piano  is  terribly  out  of  tune,"  said  the 
little  girl  suddenly,  and  she  ran  out  of  the  room 
and  came  back  carrying  her  knapsack. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  asked  her  com- 
panion. 

"  I  am  going  to  tune  the  piano,"  the  little  girl 
said  ;  and  she  took  a  tuning-hammer  out  of  her 
knapsack,  and  began  her  work  in  real  earnest. 
She  evidently  knew  what  she  was  about,  and 
pegged  away  at  the  notes  as  though  her  whole 
life  depended  on  the  result. 

The  lady  by  the  fire  was  lost  in  amazement. 
Who  could  she  be  ?  Without  luggage  and  with- 
out friends,  and  with  a  tuning-hammer  ! 

Meanwhile  one  of  the  gentlemen  had  strolled 
into  the  salon  ;  but  hearing  the  sound  of  tuning, 
and  being  in  secret  possession  of  nerves,  he  fled, 
saying,  "  The  tuner,  by  Jove  ! " 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  Miss  Blake,  whose 
nerves  were  no  secret  possession,  hastened  into 


i6o  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

the  salon,  and  in  her  usual  imperious  fashion  de- 
manded instant  silence. 

"  I  have  just  done,"  said  the  little  girl.  "  The 
piano  was  so  terribly  out  of  tune;  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation." 

Miss  Blake,  who  never  listened  to  what  any 
one  said,  took  it  for  granted  that  the  little  girl 
was  the  tuner,  for  whom  M.  le  Propri^taire  had 
promised  to  send  ;  and  having  bestowed  on  her 
a  condescending  nod,  passed  out  into  the  gar- 
den, where  she  told  some  of  the  visitors  that  the 
piano  had  been  tuned  at  last,  and  that  the  tuner 
was  a  young  woman  of  rather  eccentric  appear- 
ance. 

"  Really,  it  is  quite  abominable  how  women 
thrust  themselves  into  every  profession,"  she 
remarked,  in  her  masculine  voice.  "It  is  so 
unfeminine,  so  unseemly." 

There  was  nothing  of  the  feminine  about  Miss 
Blake  :  her  horse-cloth  dress,  her  waistcoat  and 
high  collar,  and  her  billy-cock  hat  were  of  the 
in  is<  aline  genus  ;  even  her  nerves  could  not  be 
<    lied  feminine,   since  we    learn    from    two   or 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  161 

three  doctors  (taken  off  their  guard)  that  nerves 
are  neither  feminine  nor  masculine,  but  com- 
mon. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  this  tuner,"  said  one  of 
the  tennis-players,  leaning  against  a  tree. 

"  Here  she  comes,"  said  Miss  Blake,  as  the 
little  girl  was  seen  sauntering  into  the  garden. 

The  men  put  up  their  eye-glasses,  and  saw  a 
little  lady  with  a  childish  face  and  soft  brown 
hair,  of  strictly  feminine  appearance  and  bear- 
ing. The  goat  came  towards  her  and  began 
nibbling  at  her  frock.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand the  manner  of  goats,  and  played  with  him 
to  his  heart's  content.  One  of  the  tennis-players, 
Oswald  Everard  by  name,  strolled  down  to  the 
bank  where  she  was  having  her  frolic. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  he  said,  raising  his  cap. 
"  I  hope  the  goat  is  not  worrying  you.  Poor  lit- 
tle fellow  !  This  is  his  last  day  of  play.  He  is 
to  be  killed  to-morrow  for  table  d'hote." 

"  What  a  shame  !  "  she  said.  "  Fancy  to  be 
killed,  and  then  grumbled  at  !  " 

'  That  is  precisely  what  we  do  here,"  he  said, 


162  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

laughing.  "  We  grumble  at  everything  we  eat. 
And  1  own  to  being  one  of  the  grumpiest  ; 
though  the  lady  in  the  horse-cloth  dress  yonder 
follows  close  upon  my  heels." 

"  She  was  the  lady  who  was  annoyed  at  me 
be<  ause  I  tuned  the  piano,"  the  little  girl  said. 
"Still,  it  had  to  be  done.  It  was  plainly  my 
duty.  I  seemed  to  have  come  for  that  pur- 
pose." 

"  It  has  been  confoundedly  annoying  having 
it  out  of  tune,"  he  said.  "  I  \e  had  to  give  up 
singing  altogether.  But  what  a  strange  profes- 
sion you  have  chosen!  Very  unusual,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Why,  surely  not,"  she  answered,  amused. 
"  It  seems  to  me  that  every  other  woman  has 
taken  to  it.  The  wonder  to  me  is  that  any  one 
ever  scores  a  success.  Nowadays,  however,  no 
one  could  amass  a  huge  fortune  out  of  it." 

"  No  one,  indeed  !  "  replied  Oswald  Everard, 
laughing.  "  What  on  earth  made  you  take  to 
it?" 

"  It  took  to  me,"  she  said,  simply.     "  It  wrapt 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  163 

me  round  with  enthusiasm.  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else.  I  vowed  that  I  would  rise  to  the 
top  of  my  profession.  I  worked  day  and  night. 
But  it  means  incessant  toil  for  years  if  one 
wants  to  make  any  headway." 

"  Good  gracious  !  I  thought  it  was  merely  a 
matter  of  a  few  months,"  he  said,  smiling  at  the 
little  girl. 

"  A  few  months,"  she  repeated,  scornfully. 
"  You  are  speaking  the  language  of  an  amateur. 
No  :  one  has  to  work  faithfully  year  after  year  ; 
to  grasp  the  possibilities  and  pass  on  to  greater 
possibilities.  You  imagine  what  it  must  feel 
like  to  touch  the  notes,  and  know  that  you  are 
keeping  the  listeners  spellbound  ;  that  you  are 
taking  them  into  a  fairyland  of  sound,  where 
petty  personality  is  lost  in  vague  longing  and 
regret." 

"  I  confess  I  had  not  thought  of  it  in  that 
way,"  he  said,  humbly.  "  I  have  only  regarded 
it  as  a  necessary  every-day  evil  ;  and  to  be  quite 
honest  with  you,  I  fail  to  see  now  how  it  can 
inspire   enthusiasm.     I    wish    I   could   see,"  he 


164  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

added,  looking  up  at  the  engaging  little  figure 
before  him. 

"  Never  mind,"  she  said,  laughing  at  his  dis- 
tress  ;  "  I  forgive  you.  And  after  all,  you  are 
not  the  only  person  who  looks  upon  it  as  a 
necessary  evil.  My  poor  old  guardian  abomi- 
nated it.  He  made  many  sacrifices  to  come  and 
listen  to  me.  He  knew  I  liked  to  see  his  kind 
old  face,  and  that  the  presence  of  a  real  friend 
inspired  me  with  confidence." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  it  was  nervous 
work,"  he  said. 

"  Try  it  and  see,"  she  answered.  "  But  surely 
you  spoke  of  singing.  Are  you  not  nervous  when 
you  sing  ?" 

"  Sometimes,"  he  replied,  rather  stiffly.  "  But 
that  is  slightly  different."  (He  was  very  proud 
of  his  singing,  and  made  a  great  fuss  about  it.) 
"  Your  profession,  as  I  remarked  before,  is  an 
unavoidable  nuisance.  When  I  think  what  I 
have  suffered  from  the  gentlemen  of  your  pro- 
fession, I  only  wonder  that  I  have  any  brains 
left.     But  I  am  uncourteous." 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNE  V.  165 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  Let  me  hear  about 
your  sufferings." 

"  Whenever  I  have  specially  wanted  to  be 
quiet,"  he  said  ;  and  then  he  glanced  at  her 
childish  little  face,  and  he  hesitated.  "  It  seems 
so  rude  of  me,"  he  added.  He  was  the  soul  of 
courtesy,  although  he  was  an  amateur  tenor 
singer. 

"  Please  tell  me,"  the  little  girl  said,  in  her 
winning  way. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gathering  himself  together, 
"it  is  the  one  subject  on  which  I  can  be  elo- 
quent. Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I  have  been 
worried  and  tortured  by  those  rascals.  I  have 
tried  in  everyway  to  escape  from  them,  but  there 
is  no  hope  for  me.  Yes  ;  I  believe  that  all  the 
tuners  in  the  universe  are  in  league  against  me, 
and  have  marked  me  out  for  their  special  prey." 

"  All  the  what  ?  "  asked  the  little  girl,  with  a 
jerk  in  her  voice. 

"  All  the  tuners,  of  course,"  he  replied,  rather 
snappishly.  "  I  know  that  we  cannot  do  without 
them  ;  but,  good  heavens  !  they  have  no  tact,  no 


l66  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

consideration,  no  mercy.  Whenever  I  've  wanted 
to  write  or  read  quietly,  that  fatal  knock  has  come 
at  the  door,  and  I  've  known  by  instinct  that  all 
chance  of  peace  was  over.  Whenever  I  've  been 
giving  a  luncheon-party,  the  tuner  has  arrived, 
with  Ids  abominable  black  bag,  and  his  abomi- 
nable card,  which  has  to  be  signed  at  once.  <  >n 
one  occasion  I  was  just  proposing  to  a  girl  in  her 
father's  library,  when  the  tuner  struck  up  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  left  off  suddenly,  and  fled  from 
the  house.  But  there  is  no  escape  from  these 
fiends  :  I  believe  they  are  swarming  about  in  the 
air  like  so  many  bacteria.  And  how,  in  the  name 
of  goodness,  you  should  deliberately  choose  to  be 
one  of  them,  and  should  be  so  enthusiastic  over 
your  work,  puzzles  me  beyond  all  words.  Don't 
say  that  you  carry  a  black  bag,  and  present  cards 
which  have  to  be  filled  up  at  the  most  inconvenient 

time  :  don't " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  the  little  girl  was 
convulsed  with  laughter.  She  latghed  until  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  ;  and  then  she 
dried  her  eyes  and  laughed  again. 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  167 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  "  I  can't  help  myself  ; 
it  's  so  funny." 

"  It  may  be  funny  to  you,"  he  said,  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself  ;  "  but  it  is  not  funny  to 
me." 

"  Of  course  it  is  n't,"  she  replied,  making  a 
desperate  effort  to  be  serious.  "Well,  tell  me 
something  more  about  these  tuners." 

"  Not  another  word,"  he  said,  gallantly.  "  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself  as  it  is.  Come  to  the 
end  of  the  garden,  and  let  me  show  you  the 
view  down  into  the  valley." 

She  had  conquered  her  fit  of  merriment,  but 
her  face  wore  a  settled  look  of  mischief,  and  she 
was  evidently  the  possessor  of  some  secret  joke. 
She  seemed  in  capital  health  and  spirits,  and  had 
so  much  to  say  that  was  bright  and  interesting, 
that  Oswald  Everard  found  himself  becoming 
reconciled  to  the  whole  race  of  tuners.  He  was 
amazed  to  learn  that  she  had  walked  all  the  way 
from  Z.,  and  quite  alone  too. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  anything  of  that,"  she  said  ; 
"  I  had  a  splendid  time,  and  I  caught  four  rare 


i68  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

butterflies.  I  would  not  have  missed  those  for 
anything.  As  for  the  going  about  by  myself, 
that  is  a  second  nature.  Besides,  I  do  not  be- 
long to  any  one.  That  has  its  advantages,  and 
I  suppose  its  disadvantages  ;  but  at  present  I 
have  only  discovered  the  advantages.  The 
disadvantages  will  discover  themselves  !  " 

"  I  believe  you  are  what  the  novels  call  an 
advanced  young  woman,"  he  said.  "Perhaps 
you  give  lectures  on  Woman's  Suffrage  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort  ?  " 

"  I  have  very  often  mounted  the  platform," 
she  answered.  "  In  fact,  I  am  never  so  happy 
as  when  addressing  an  immense  audience.  A 
most  unfeminine  thing  to  do,  is  n't  it  ?  What 
would  the  lady  yonder  in  the  horse-cloth  dress 
and  billy-cock  hat  say  ?  Don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  go  and  help  her  drive  away  the  goat? 
She  looks  so  frightened.  She  interests  me 
deeply.  I  wonder  whether  she  has  written  an 
essay  on  the  Feminine  in  Woman.  I  should 
like  to  read  it  :    it  would  do  me  so  much  good." 

"  You  are  at   least   a   true  woman,"  he  said, 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  169 

laughing,  "  for  I  see  you  can  be  spiteful.     The 
tuning  has  not  driven  that  away." 

"  Ah,  I  had  forgotten  about  the  tuning,"  she 
answered,  brightly  ;  "  but  now  you  remind  me,  I 
have  been  seized  with  a  great  idea." 

"  Won't  you  tell  it  to  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  keep  my  great  ideas 
for  myself,  and  work  them  out  in  secret.  And 
this  one  is  particularly  amusing.  What  fun  I 
shall  have  !  " 

"  But  why  keep  the  fun  to  yourself  ? "  he  said. 
"  We  all  want  to  be  amused  here  ;  we  all  want  to 
be  stirred  up  :  a  little  fun  would  be  a  charity." 

"Very  well,  since  you  wish  it,  you  shall  be 
stirred  up,"  she  answered  ;  "but  you  must  give 
me  time  to  work  out  my  great  idea.  I  do  not 
hurry  about  things,  not  even  about  my  profes- 
sional duties.  For  I  have  a  strong  feeling  that 
it  is  vulgar  to  be  always  amassing  riches  !  As  I 
have  neither  a  husband  nor  a  brother  to  support, 
I  have  chosen  less  wealth,  and  more  leisure  to 
enjoy  all  the  loveliness  of  life  !  So  you  see  I 
take  my  time  about  everything.     And  to-morrow 


i7o  IN   VARYING  MOO  PS. 

I  shall  catch  butterflies  at  my  Leisure,  and  lie 

amongst   the  dear   old    pines,  and   work   at    mj 
great  idea." 

"  I  shall  catch  butterflies,"  said  her  com- 
panion. "  And  I  too  shall  lie  amongst  the  dear 
old  pines." 

"Just  as  you  please,"  she  said  ;  and  at  that 
moment  the  table  d'hote  bell  rang. 

The  little  girl  hastened  to  the  bureau  and 
spoke  rapidly  in  German  to  the  cashier. 

"  Ach,  Fraulein  !  "  he  said.  '  You  are  not 
really  serious  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  want  them  to 
know  my  name.  It  will  only  worry  me.  Say  I 
am  the  young  lady  who  tuned  the  piano." 

She  had  scarcely  given  these  directions  and 
mounted  to  her  room,  when  Oswald  Everard, 
who  was  much  interested  in  his  mysterious  com- 
panion, came  to  the  bureau  and  asked  for  the 
name  of  the  little  lady. 

"  Es  ist  das  Fraulein  welches  das  Piano  ge- 
stimmt  hat,"  answered  the  man,  returning  with 
unusual  quickness  to  his  account-book. 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  1 71 

No  one  spoke  to  the  little  girl  at  table  d'hote  , 
but  for  all  that,  she  enjoyed  her  dinner,  and  gave 
her  serious  attention  to  all  the  courses.  Being 
thus  solidly  occupied,  she  had  not  much  leisure 
to  bestow  on  the  conversation  of  the  othei 
guests.  Nor  was  it  specially  original  :  it  treated 
of  the  shortcomings  of  the  chef,  the  tastelessness 
of  the  soup,  the  toughness  of  the  beef,  and  all 
the  many  failings  which  go  to  complete  a  moun- 
tain-hotel dinner.  But  suddenly,  so  it  seemed  to 
the  little  girl,  this  time-honoured  talk  passed 
into  another  phase  :  she  heard  the  word  music 
mentioned,  and  she  became  at  once  interested  to 
learn  what  these  people  had  to  say  on  a  subject 
which  was  dearer  to  her  than  any  other. 

"  For  my  own  part,"  said  a  stern-looking  old 
man,  "  I  have  no  words  to  describe  what  a 
gracious  comfort  music  has  been  to  me  all  my 
life.  It  is  the  noblest  language  which  man  may 
understand  and  speak.  And  I  sometimes  think 
that  those  who  know  it,  or  know  something  of  it, 
are  able  at  rare  moments  to  find  an  answer  to 
life's  perplexing  problems." 


172  IN   VARYING  Moons. 

The  little  girl  looked  up  from  her  plate. 
Robert  Browning's  words  rose  to  her  lips,  but 
she  did  not  give  them  utterance  : 

"  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  He  whispers  in  the  ear  ; 
The  rest  may  reason,  and   welcome  ;  't  is   we  musicians 
know." 

"  I  have  lived  through  a  long  life,"  said 
another  elderly  man,  "  and  have  therefore  had 
my  share  of  trouble  ;  but  the  grief  of  being 
obliged  to  give  up  music  was  the  grief  which 
held  me  longest,  or  which  perhaps  has  never 
left  me.  I  still  crave  for  the  gracious  pleasure 
of  touching  once  more  the  strings  of  the  violon- 
cello, and  hearing  the  dear  tender  voice  singing 
and  throbbing  and  answering  even  to  such  poor 
skill  as  mine.  I  still  yearn  to  take  my  part  in 
concerted  music,  and  be  one  of  those  privilege  d 
to  pi  ethoven's  string  quartettes.    But  that 

will  have  to  be  in  another  incarnation,  I  think." 

He  glanced  at  his  shrunken  arm,  and  then,  as 
though  ashamed  of  this  allusion  to  his  own  per- 
sonal infirmity,  he  added  hastily  : 

"  But  when  the  first  pang  of  such   a   pain    is 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOUR  XT  Y.  173 

over,  there  remains  the  comfort  of  being  a 
listener.  At  first  one  does  not  think  it  a  com- 
fort ;  but,  as  time  goes  on,  there  is  no  resisting 
its  magic  influence.  And  Lowell  said  rightly, 
'  that  one  of  God's  great  charities  is  music'  " 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  musical,  Mr. 
Keith,"  said  an  English  lady.  "  You  have  never 
before  spoken  of  music." 

"  Perhaps  not,  madam,"  he  answered.  "  One 
does  not  often  speak  of  what  one  cares  for  most 
of  all.  But  when  I  am  in  London,  I  rarely  miss 
hearing  our  best  players." 

At  this  point  others  joined  in,  and  the  various 
merits  of  eminent  pianists  were  warmly  dis- 
cussed. 

"  What  a  wonderful  name  that  little  English 
lady  has  made  for  herself  !  "  said  the  Major,  who 
was  considered  an  authority  on  all  subjects.  "  I 
would  go  anywhere  to  hear  Miss  Thyra  Flower- 
dew.  We  all  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  her.  She 
has  taken  even  the  German  musical  world  by 
storm,  and  they  say  her  recitals  at  Paris  have 
been  brilliantly  successful.  I  myself  have  heard 


174  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

her  at  New  York,  Leipsic,  London,  Berlin,  and 
even  Chicago." 

The  little  girl  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair. 

"  I  don't  think  Miss  Flowerdew  has  ever  been 
to  Chicago,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  The  admirer  of 
Miss  Thyra  Klowerdew  looked  much  annoyed, 
and  twiddled  his  watch-chain.  He  had  meant 
to  say  Philadelphia,  but  he  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  own  to  his  mistake. 

"  What  impertinence  !  "  said  one  of  the  ladies 
to  Miss  Blake.  "What  can  she  know  about  it  ? 
Is  she  not  the  young  person  who  tuned  the 
piano  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  tunes  Miss  Thyra  Flowerdew's 
piano  !  "  suggested  Miss  Blake  in  a  loud 
whisper. 

"  You  are  right,  madam,"  said  the  little  girl, 
quietly.  '  I  have  often  tuned  Miss  Flowerdew's 
piano." 

There  was  another  embarrassing  silence  ;  and 
then  a  lovely  old  lady,  whom  every  one  rever- 
enced, came  to  the  rescue. 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  175 

"  I  think  her  playing  is  simply  superb,"  she 
said.  "  Nothing  that  I  ever  hear  satisfies  me  so 
entirely.  She  has  all  the  tenderness  of  an  angel's 
touch." 

"  Listening  to  her,"  said  the  Major,  who  had 
now  recovered  from  his  annoyance  at  being 
interrupted,  "  one  becomes  unconscious  of  her 
presence,  for  she  is  the  music  itself.  And  that  is 
rare.  It  is  but  seldom  nowadays  that  we  are 
allowed  to  forget  the  personality  of  the  player. 
And  yet  her  personality  is  an  unusual  one  :  hav- 
ing once  seen  her,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  forget 
her.      I  should  recognise  her  anywhere." 

As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  at  the  little  tuner, 
and  could  not  help  admiring  her  dignified  com- 
posure under  circumstances  which  might  have 
been  distressing  to  any  one  ;  and  when  she  rose 
with  the  others,  he  followed  her,  and  said  stiffly  : 

"  I  regret  that  I  was  the  indirect  cause  of 
putting  you  in  an  awkward  position." 

"  It  is  really  of  no  consequence,"  she  said, 
brightly.  "  If  you  think  I  was  impertinent,  I 
ask   your   forgiveness.     I    did  not  mean   to  be 


176  TN   VARYING   MOODS. 

officious.      The  words  were  spoken  before  I  was 
aware  of  them." 

She  passed  into  the  salon,  where  she  found  a 
quiel  corner  for  herself,  and  read  some  of  the 
newspapers.  No  one  took  the  slightest  notice 
of  her  :  not  a  word  was  spokeft  to  her  ;  hut  when 
she  relieved  the  company  of  her  presence,  her 
impertinence  was  commented  on. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  she  heard  what  I  said,"  re- 
marked Miss  lUake.  "But  she  did  not  seem  to 
mind.  These  young  women  who  go  out  into 
the  world  lose  the  edge  of  their  sensitiveness  and 
femininity.     I  have  always  observed  that." 

"  How  much  they  are  spared  then  !  "  answered 
some  one. 

Meanwhile  the  little  girl  slept  soundly.  She 
had  merry  dreams,  and  finally  woke  up  laugh- 
ing. She  hurried  over  her  breakfast,  and  then 
stood  ready  to  go  for  a  butterfly-hunt.  She 
looked  thoroughly  happy,  and  evidently  had 
found,  and  was  holding  tightly,  the  key  to  1,' 
enjoyment. 

Oswald  Everard  was  waiting  on  the  balcony, 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNE  Y.  177 

and  he  reminded  her  that  he  intended  to  go 
with  her. 

"  Come  along,  then,"  she  answered  ;  "  we 
must  not  lose  a  moment." 

They  caught  butterflies,  they  picked  flowers, 
they  ran  ;  they  lingered  by  the  wayside,  they 
sang  ;  they  climbed,  and  he  marvelled  at  her 
easy  speed.  Nothing  seemed  to  tire  her,  and 
everything  seemed  to  delight  her  :  the  flowers, 
the  birds,  the  clouds,  the  grasses,  and  the  fra- 
grance of  the  pine-woods. 

"  Is  it  not  good  to  live?"  she  cried.  "Is  it 
not  splendid  to  take  in  the  scented  air  ?  Draw 
in  as  many  long  breaths  as  you  can.  Is  n't  it 
good  ?  Don't  you  feel  now  as  though  you  were 
ready  to  move  mountains  ?  I  do.  What  a  dear 
old  nurse  Nature  is  !  How  she  pets  us,  and  gives 
us  the  best  of  her  treasures  !  " 

Her  happiness  invaded  Oswald  Everard's 
soul,  and  he  felt  like  a  schoolboy  once  more,  re- 
joicing in  a  fine  day  and  his  liberty  ;  with  noth- 
ing to  spoil  the  freshness  of  the  air,  and  nothing 
to  threaten  the  freedom  of  the  moment, 

IZ 


178  IN  VARYING  MOODS. 

"  Is  it  not  good  to  live  ?"  he  cried.  "Yes, 
indeed  it  is,  if  we  know  how  to  enjoy." 

They  had  conic  upon  some  haymakers,  and 
the  little  girl  hastened  up  to  help  them.  There 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  them,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing to  the  women,  and  helping  them  to  pile  up 
the  hay  on  the  shoulders  of  abroad-backed  man, 
who  then  conveyed  his  burden  to  a  pear-shaped 
stack.  Oswald  Everard  watched  his  companion 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  quite  forgetting  his  dig- 
nity as  an  amateur  tenor  singer,  he  too  lent  his 
aid,  and  did  not  leave  off  until  his  companion 
sank  exhausted  on  the  ground. 

"  Oh,"  she  laughed,  "  what  delightful  work 
for  a  very  short  time  !  Come  along  ;  let  us  go 
into  that  brown  chalet  yonder  and  ask  for  some 
milk.  I  am  simply  parched  with  thirst.  Thank 
you,  but  I  prefer  to  carry  my  own  flowers." 

"  What  an  independent  little  lady  you  are  !  " 
he  said. 

"  It  is  quite  necessary  in  our  profession,  I  can 
assure  you,"  she  said,  with  a  tone  of  mischief  in 
her  voice,     "  That  reminds  me  that  my  profes- 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  179 

sion  is  evidently  not  looked  upon  with  any 
favour  by  the  visitors  at  the  hotel.  I  am  heart- 
broken to  think  that  I  have  not  won  the  esteem 
of  that  lady  in  the  billy-cock  hat.  What  will 
she  say  to  you  for  coming  out  with  me  ?  And 
what  will  she  say  of  me  for  allowing  you  to 
come  ?  I  wonder  whether  she  will  say,  '  How 
unfeminine  ! '     I  wish  I  could  hear  her  !  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  care,"  he  said.  "  You 
seem  to  be  a  wild  little  bird." 

"  I  don't  care  what  a  person  of  that  descrip- 
tion says,"  replied  his  companion. 

"What  on  earth  made  you  contradict  the 
Major  at  dinner  last  night  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  was 
not  at  the  table,  but  some  one  told  me  of  the 
incident ;  and  I  felt  very  sorry  about  it.  What 
could  you  know  of  Miss  Thyra  Flowerdew  ?  " 

"  Well,  considering  that  she  is  in  my  profes- 
sion, of  course  I  know  something  about  her," 
said  the  little  girl. 

"  Confound  it  all  !  "  he  said,  rather  rudely. 
"  Surely  there  is  some  difference  between  the 
bellows-blower  and  the  organist," 


180  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"Absolutely  none,"  she  answered — "merely 
a  variation  of  the  original  theme  !  " 

As  she  spoke  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  the 
chalet,  and  asked  the  old  dame  to  give  them 
some  milk.  They  sat  in  the  Stube,  and  the  little 
girl  looked  about,  and  admired  the  spinning- 
wheel,  and  the  quaint  chairs,  and  the  queer  old 
jugs,  and  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 

"  Ah,  but  you  shall  see  the  other  room,"  the 
old  peasant  woman  said,  and  she  led  them  into 
a  small  apartment,  which  was  evidently  intended 
for  a  study.  It  bore  evidences  of  unusual  taste 
and  care,  and  one  could  see  that  some  loving 
hand  had  been  trying  to  make  it  a  real  sanctum 
of  refinement.  There  was  even  a  small  piano. 
A  carved  book-rack  was  fastened  to  the  wall. 

The  old  dame  did  not  speak  at  first  ;  she  gave 
her  guests  time  to  recover  from  the  astonish- 
ment which  she  felt  they  must  be  experiencing ; 
then  she  pointed  proudly  to  the  piano. 

"  I  bought  that  for  my  daughters,"  she  said, 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  sadness  and  triumph. 
11  I  wanted  to  keep  them  at  home  with  me,  and 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  iSl 

I  saved  and  saved  and  got  enough  money  to  buy 
the  piano.  They  had  always  wanted  to  have 
one,  and  I  thought  they  would  then  stay  with 
me.  They  liked  music  and  books,  and  I  knew 
they  would  be  glad  to  have  a  room  of  their  own 
where  they  might  read  and  play  and  study  ;  and 
so  I  gave  them  this  corner." 

"Well,  mother,"  asked  the  little  girl,  "and 
where  are  they  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  she  answered,  sadly,  "  they  did  not  care 
to  stay.  But  it  was  natural  enough  ;  and  I  was 
foolish  to  grieve.  Besides,  they  come  to  see  me." 

"  And  then  they  play  to  you  ? "  asked  the  little 
girl,  gently. 

"  They  say  the  piano  is  out  of  tune,"  the  old 
dame  said.  "  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you  can 
tell." 

The  little  girl  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and 
struck  a  few  chords. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  It  is  badly  out  of  tune. 
Give  me  the  tuning-hammer.  I  am  sorry,"  she 
added,  smiling  at  Oswald  Everard,  "  but  I  can- 
not neglect  my  duty.     Don't  wait  for  me." 


1&2  IN    VARYING   MOODS. 

"  I  will  wait  for  you,"  he  said,  sullenly  ;  and 
he  went  into  the  balcony  and  smoked  his  pipe, 
and  tried  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience. 

When  she  had  faithfully  done  her  work,  she 
played  a  few  simple  melodies,  such  as  she  knew 
the  old  woman  would  love  and  understand  ;  and 
she  turned  away  when  she  saw  that  the  listener's 
eyes  were  moist. 

"  Play  once  again,"  the  old  woman  whispered. 
"  I  am  dreaming  of  beautiful  things." 

So  the  little  tuner  touched  the  keys  again 
with  all  the  tenderness  of  an  angel. 

"Tell  your  daughters,"  she  said,  as  she  rose 
to  say  good-bye,  "  that  the  piano  is  now  in  good 
tune.  Then  they  will  play  to  you  the  next  time 
they  come." 

"  I  shall  always  remember  you,  mademoi- 
selle," the  old  woman  said  ;  and,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, she  too  took  the  childish  face  and 
kissed  it. 

Oswald  Everard  was  waiting  in  the  hay-field 
for  his  companion  ;  and  when  she  apologised  to 
him   for  this   little  professional   intermezzo,   as 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  183 

she  called  it,  he  recovered  from  his  sulkiness 
and  readjusted  his  nerves,  which  the  noise  of 
the  tuning  had  somewhat  disturbed. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  tune  the  old 
dame's  piano,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
renewed  interest. 

"  Some  one  had  to  do  it,  of  course,"  she 
answered,  brightly,  "  and  I  am  glad  the  chance 
fell  to  me.  What  a  comfort  it  is  to  think  that 
the  next  time  those  daughters  come  to  see  her, 
they  will  play  to  her,  and  make  her  very  happy. 
Poor  old  dear  !  " 

"  You  puzzle  me  greatly,"  he  said.  "  I  can- 
not for  the  life  of  me  think  what  made  you 
choose  your  calling.  You  must  have  many 
gifts  ;  any  one  who  talks  with  you  must  see  that 
at  once.     And  you  play  quite  nicely  too." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  my  profession  sticks  in  your 
throat,"  she  answered.  "  Do  be  thankful  that  T 
am  nothing  worse  than  a  tuner.  For  I  might  be 
something  worse — a  snob,  for  instance." 

And,  so  speaking,  she  dashed  after  a  butterfly, 
and  left  him  to   recover  from  her  words.     He 


1S4  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

wis  conscious  of  having  deserved  a  reproof; 
and  when  at  hist  he  overtook  her,  he  said  as 
much,  and  asked  for  her  kind  indulgence. 

"I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  laughing.  "You 
and  I  are  not  looking  at  things  from  the  same 
point  of  view  ;  but  we  have  had  a  splendid 
morning  together,  and  I  have  enjoyed  every 
minute  of  it.  And  to-morrow  I  go  on  my 
way." 

"  And  to-morrow  you  go,"  he  repeated.  "  Can 
it  not  be  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?" 

"  I  am  a  bird  of  passage,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head.  "  You  must  not  seek  to  detain  me. 
I  have  taken  my  rest,  and  off  I  go  to  other 
climes." 

They  had  arrived  at  the  hotel,  and  Oswald 
Everard  saw  no  more  of  his  companion  until 
the  evening,  when  she  came  down  rather  late  for 
!  ible  d'hote.  She  hurried  over  her  dinner  and 
went  into  the  salon.  She  closed  the  door  and 
sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  lingered  there  with- 
out touching  the  keys  :  once  or  twice  she  raised 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNEY.  185 

ner  hands,  and  then  she  let  them  rest  on  the 
notes,  and  half-unconsciously  they  began  to 
move   and   make   sweet    music,    and    then   they 

drifted   into    Schumann's    Abcndlied,    and    then 

* 
the  little  girl  played  some  of  his  Kinderscenen, 

and  some  of  his  Fantasie  Stiicke,  and  some  of  his 

songs. 

Her  touch  and  feeling  were  exquisite  ;  and 
her  phrasing  betrayed  the  true  musician.  The 
strains  of  music  reached  the  dining-room,  and 
one  by  one  the  guests  came  creeping  in,  moved 
by  the  music  and  anxious  to  see  the  musician. 

The  little  girl  did  not  look  up  :  she  was  in  a 
Schumann  mood  that  evening  ;  and  only  the 
players  of  Schumann  know  what  enthralling 
possession  he  takes  of  their  very  spirit.  All  the 
passion  and  pathos  and  wildness  and  longing 
had  found  an  inspired  interpreter  ;  and  those 
who  listened  to  her  were  held  by  the  magic 
which  was  her  own  secret,  and  which  had  won 
for  her  such  honour  as  comes  only  to  the  few. 
She  understood  Schumann's  music,  and  was  at 
her  best  with  him. 


1 86  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

Had  she,  perhaps,  chosen  to  play  his  music 
this  evening  because  she  wished  to  be  at  her 
best  ?  Or  was  she  merely  being  impelled  by  an 
overwhelming  force  within  her  ?  Perhaps  it  was 
something  of  both. 

Was  she  wishing  to  humiliate  these  people 
who  had  received  her  so  coldly  ?  This  little  ;,rir) 
was  only  human  ;  perhaps  there  was  something 
of  that  feeling  too.  Who  can  tell  ?  But  she 
played  as  she  had  never  played  in  London, 
or  Paris,  or  Berlin,  or  New  York,  or  Phila- 
delphia. 

At  last  she  arrived  at  the  Carnival,  and  those 
who  heard  her,  declared  afterward  that  they  had 
never  listened  to  a  more  magnificent  rendering. 
The  tenderness  was  so  restrained  ;  the  vigour 
was  so  refined.  When  the  last  notes  of  that 
spirited  Marclic  des  DaviJsbiinJlcr  centre  les 
Philistins  had  died  away,  she  glanced  at  Oswald 
Kverard,  who  was  standing  near  her,  almost 
c'azed. 

"  And  now  my  favourite  piece  of  all,"  she 
said  ;  and  she  at  once  began  the  Second  Novel- 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOUR  XL  V.  187 

lette,  the  finest  of  the  eight,  but  seldom  played 
in  public. 

What  can  one  say  of  the  wild  rush  of  the 
leading  theme,  and  the  pathetic  longing  of  the 
Intermezzo  ? 

".     .     .     The  murmuring  dying  notes, 
That  fall  as  soft  as  snow  on  the  sea  "  ; 


and 


"  The  passionate  strain  that  deeply  going, 
Refines  the  bosom  it  trembles  through." 


What  can  one  say  of  those  vague  aspirations 
and  finest  thoughts  which  possess  the  very  dullest 
amongst  us  when  such  music  as  that  which  the 
little  girl  had  chosen,  catches  us  and  keeps  us, 
if  only  for  a  passing  moment,  but  that  moment 
of  the  rarest  worth  and  loveliness  in  our  unlovely 
lives  ? 

What  can  one  say  of  the  highest  music,  ex- 
cept that,  like  death,  it  is  the  great  leveller  : 
it  gathers  us  all  to  its  tender  keeping — and  we 
rest. 

The  little  girl  ceased  playing.     There  was  not 


1 88  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

a  sound  to  be  heard  ;  the  magic  was  still  hold- 
ing her  listeners.     When  at  last  they  had  1, 
themselves  with  a  sigh,  they  pressed  forward  to 
greet  her. 

"  There  is  only  one  person  who  can  play  like 
that,"  cried  the  Major,  with  sudden  inspiration 
— "  she  is  Miss  Thyra  Flowerdew." 

The  little  girl  smiled. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  she  said,  simply  ;  and 
she  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  the  Bird 
of  Passage  took  her  flight  onwards,  but  she  was 
not  destined  to  go  off  unobserved.  Oswald 
Everard  saw  the  little  figure  swinging  along  the 
road,  and  he  overtook  her. 

"You  little  wild  bird!"  he  said;  "and  so 
this  was  your  great  idea  :  to  have  your  fun  out 
of  us  all,  and  then  play  to  us  and  make  us  feel, 
I  don't  know  how — and  then  to  go." 

"You  said  the  company  wanted  stirring  up," 
she  answered  ;  "  and  I  rather  fancy  I  have 
stirred  them  up." 


THE  BIRD  ON  ITS  JOURNE  V.  181; 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  you  have  done  for 
me  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  hope  I  have  proved  to  you  that  the  bellows- 
blower  and  the  organist  are  sometimes  identical," 
she  answered. 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Little  wild  bird,"  he  said,  "  you  have  given 
me  a  great  idea,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is  : 
to  tame  you.     So  good-bye  for  the  present." 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said.  "  But  wild  birds  are 
not  so  easily  tamed." 

Then  she  waved  her  hand  over  her  head,  and 
went  on  her  way  singing. 


CONCERNING 
THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS  WIFE 


IQI 


CONCERNING  THE  CLOCKMAKER 
AND   HIS   WIFE. 


IT  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  the  rain,  which 
had  been  pouring  all  the  day  long,  was  still 
pelting  against  the  windows  of  the  clockmaker's 
kitchen.  The  clockmaker's  wife  put  down  her 
knitting,  threw  a  few  sticks  on  the  fire,  unfastened 
the  bellows  from  their  accustomed  place  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  hearth,  and  by  their  aid 
fanned  life  into  the  dying  embers.  She  glanced 
at  the  clockmaker,  who  sat  at  the  table,  and 
was  busily  engaged  in  repairing  a  watch. 

'  Thomas,"  she  said,  "  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
see  by  that  light.  Let  me  trim  you  another 
lamp." 

13  193 


194  tN    VARYING  MOODS. 

1  have  just  done,"  he  answered,  gruffly,  with- 
out Looking  ti]>  from  his  work. 

He  went  on  working  and  she  went  on  knit- 
ting ;  and,  except  for  the  sound  of  ln-r  needles, 
and  the  purring  of  the  black  cat  whi<  h  sat  staring 
into  the  fire,  there  was  silence  in  the  room,  until 
the  clockmaker  dropped  one  of  his  tools,  and 
the  black  cat  sprang  after  it,  and  chased  it  gaily 
on  the  floor. 

"  The  devil  take  that  cat  !  "  growled  the 
clockmaker. 

"  Not  yet,  I  hope,"  said  the  little  old  lady,  who 
quietly  picked  up  the  tool,  replaced  it  on  the 
table,  and  caressed  the  offending  cat,  which, 
after  this  vigorous  sally,  had  returned  to  its 
former  task  of  contemplating  the  fire. 

The  little  old  lady  leaned  forward  in  her  chair 
and  nursed  her  face.  She  was  an  old-fashioned 
person,  with  sharp  features  and  stiff  grey  ring- 
lets falling  over  her  sunken  cheeks.  Her  ( 
were  piercingly  bright  ;  she  had  an  intellectual 
forehead  ;  her  countenance  was  almost  distress- 
ing in  its  eagerness, 


THE   CLOCKMAKER  AND  HiS    IVJPE.     195 

At  last  uhe  clockmaker  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  came  and  rested  in  the  old  carved-oak  settle 
which  served  the  double  purpose  of  keeping  out 
the  draught  from  the  door,  and  forming  a  com- 
fortable though  ancient  seat. 

He  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  held  them  in 
his  hand. 

"  Well,  Volumnia,"  he  said,  "  to-morrow  you 
and  I  will  part.  Not  a  very  pleasant  prospect 
so  far  as  the  weather  is  concerned.  Uo  you  hear 
the  rain  ? " 

"  I  fear  you  will  have  a  wet  journey,"  said  his 
wife.  "  Perhaps  you  remember  that  to-morrow 
is  the  anniversary  of  our  wedding-day.  On  that 
day  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents  just  as  it  is 
pouring  now.  That  was  not  a  very  cheerful 
omen  for  our  wedding." 

"  No,  Volumnia,"  the  old  man  answered,  smil- 
ing grimly  ;  "  my  friends  tried  to  persuade  me 
not  to  marry  you." 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  old  lady,  dryly,  "  and  my 
friends  tried  to  persuade  me  not  to  marry  you." 

**  I  wish  you  had  listened  to  them,  Volumnia," 


I ./.  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

he  sighed,  as  he  leaned  back  in  the  settle.     Vo- 
lumnia  Webster  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Because  I  did  not  listen  to  my  friends,  and 
you  did  not  listen  to  your  friends,  Thomas,"  she 
said,  "  we  have  each  of  us  lost  thirty-five  years 
of  life.  That  was  a  pity.  Life  is  short,  and  we 
cannot  afford  to  fritter  it  away.  But  in  all  human 
probability  we  have  each  of  us  about  twenty 
more  years  to  live  :  so  we  must  make  the  most 
of  that.  There  is  plenty  of  time  to  do  a  good 
many  things  in  twenty  years." 

"  The  curious  part,"  said  the  clockmaker,  as 
he  stroked  the  black  cat,  "the  curious  part, 
Vclumnia,  is  that  we  have  never  thought  of  all 
this  before.  Now,  to  be  honest  with  me,  do  you 
recollect  a  single  day's  pleasure  in  my  com- 
pany ?" 

Volumnia  Webster  mused. 

"  Nothing  readily  suggests  itself  to  me,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause.  "  Ah,  yes  :  I  can  recall  one 
very  happy  day  in  London,  spent  with  books 
and  pictures.  Stay,  I  forgot  that  you  did  not 
spend  that  day   with  me.     No.   Thomas  ;  to  b? 


THE  CLOCKMAR'ER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     197 

candid  with  you,  I  can  dwell  on  nothing  pleasur- 
able in  the  past,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned. 
The  fact  is,  there  has  always  been  such  a  gulf 
between  us  I  came  from  surroundings  utterly 
different  from  your  world,  and  not  only  our 
spheres,  but  our  actual  ways  of  looking  at  things 
were  different.  Then,  too,  I  was  of  gentle  birth  ; 
you  know  I  have  no  wish  to  speak  unkind  words 
to  you,  Thomas,  but  I  do  not  think  the  same 
adjective  can  qualify  your  birth." 

"  You  have  told  me  that  several  times  before," 
he  replied,  half-sulkily.  "  You  may  have  for- 
gotten all  your  other  duties,  but  you  have  never 
forgotten  the  duty  of  reminding  me,  either  di- 
rectly or  indirectly,  that  your  father  was  a  naval 
captain  and  that  my  father  was  not  a  naval  cap- 
tain. But  there,  let  that  pass  ;  everybody  must 
have  some  kind  of  hobby,  and  I  do  not  grudge 
you  yours.  We  were  speaking  of  enjoyment  in 
the  past,  were  we  not  ?  You  said  you  could 
recollect  nothing  pleasant,  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. Well,  I  have  the  advantage  of  you, 
Volumnia  ;    for   I   can  recall  a  very  happy  day 


t98  TN    WARY  IXC   MOODS. 

spent  with  you  in  Winchester  Cathedral.  I><> 
you  not  remember  looking  at  the  Crusaders, 
and  noting  whi<  h  of  them  had  been  on*  e,  twice, 

or  thrice  to  the  Holy  Land  ?  I  thought  them 
fools  because  of  their  enthusiasm,  and,  as  usual, 
you  did  not  agree  with  me.  And  then  we  went 
into  the  town,  and  bought  that  clock  yonder. 
That  reminds  me  :  there  is  something  wrong 
with  the  hands  ;  I  must  see  to  them  before 
I  go  to  bed  to-night.  Indeed,  I  will  do  so 
now." 

"  You  are  getting  confused,"  said  Volumnia 
Webster,  placidly,  as  her  husband  opened  the 
glass  of  the  clock's  face  ;  "  I  have  never  been 
in  Winchester." 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  answered,  turning 
round,  "  you  were  not  with  me  !  That  was  the 
happiest  day  I  ever  spent.  Everything  in  Win- 
chester interested  me,  and  I  made  friends  with 
that  old  clockmaker,  who  wanted  me  to  buy  his 
business.  If  I  had  had  the  money,  nothing 
would  have  pleased  me  better,  for  I  always  felt 
buried  in  this  stupid  village.      I  have  never  had 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.      19. 

the  chance  of  putting  my  talents  to  good  ac- 
count.    Well,  that  is  of  the  Past  too." 

He  had  now  set  in  order  the  hands  of  the 
clock  ;  and,  taking  out  his  heavy  gold  watch,  he 
corrected  the  time,  and  returned  to  the  settle. 

"  I  should  tell  you,  Volumnia,"  he  continued, 
"  that  I  leave  my  affairs  in  excellent  condition. 
I  have  wound  them  up  just  as  if  they  were  the 
affairs  of  a  dead  man.  I  owe  nothing  ;  indeed 
some  few  shillings  are  owing  to  me  for  repairs 
which  I  have  finished  this  afternoon.  The 
clock  belongs  to  Farmer  Garrett,  and  the  watch 
is  the  property  of  Mr.  Fane.  Be  sure  to  return 
them  to-morrow,  and,  as  for  the  extra  money,  it 
will  be  useful  to  you  at  Christmas." 

Volumnia  Webster  stirred  uneasily  in  her 
chair. 

"  Christmas  without  you,  will  seem  strange, 
Thomas,"  she  said. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered,  "  but  one  soon  gets 
accustomed  to  feeling  strange." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  his  heavy  old-fash- 
ioned watch,  and  looked  at  it  regretfully. 


200  IN  VARYING  Moons. 

"  You  remember,  this  belonged  to  youi 
brother,  Volumnia  ?  "  he  said,  sadly.  "It  has 
been  my  companion  fur  many  years.  I  suppose 
I  must  give  it  back  to  you,  but  I  shall  miss  it 
terribly." 

"  No  doubt  you  will  feel  strange  at  first,"  said 
Volumnia,  "  but,  to  quote  your  own  words,  one 
soon  gets  accustomed  to  feeling  strange." 

The  old  clockmaker  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  Volumnia,"  he  repelid  ;  "I  shall  miss 
that  watch  sadly.  We  can  learn  to  do  without 
people  much  more  easily  than  without  things. 
We  become  absurdly  attached  to  our  little  per- 
sonal possessions."  His  voice  faltered  as  he 
spoke. 

"  I  give  in,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  you  may 
keep  the  watch." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  warmly  ;  "  that  is  gener- 
ous of  you.  In  fact,  Volumnia,  you  have  been 
kind  to  me  in  a  great  many  ways,  and  I  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  that  I  owe  you  a  certain 
amount  of  gratitude  for  all  that  you  have  done 
for  me,  and  been  to  me,  during  these  thirty-five 


THE   CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     201 

years.  Sometimes  I  think  it  almost  a  pity  that 
we  should  part  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  I  believe  we 
have  decided  for  the  best.  And  now,  listen, 
Volumnia  :  I  wish  to  impress  on  you  that  if 
any  neighbours  come  in,  and  question  you  about 
our  affairs,  as  neighbours  will  do,  you  may  just 
tell  them  that  we  have  not  parted  in  anger,  but 
that  we  are  tired  of  each  other.  If  they  want 
more  particulars,  as  neighbours  often  do  want, 
you  may  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil  and  get 
satisfied.  They  will  not  put  further  questions 
to  vou." 

"  I  will  remember  your  words,"  said  his  wife, 
putting  down  a  violet  comforter  which  she  had 
just  that  moment  finished.  "  Here  is  your  com- 
forter ;  be  sure  and  wear  it  in  the  cold  and  damp 
weather,  for  you  cannot  afford  to  trifle  with  your 
throat  ;  and  if  you  wish  to  live  a  good  twenty 
years  longer  you  must  take  every  possible  pre- 
caution. For  my  own  part,  I  shall  be  anxious  to 
know  how  your  health  goes  on.  Is  it  desirable 
that  we  should  exchange  letters  ? " 

"  I  think  that   is   hardly  necessary,"  he  said, 


2o2  /x   I   /AT/"       MOODS. 

looking  approvingly  at  the  comforter.  "After 
to-morrow,  we  pra<  ti<  ally  <  case  to  live  for  ea<  h 
other  :  so  that  it  cannot  really  matter  to  you 
what  becomes  of  me,  and  it  cannot  matter  to 
me  what  becomes  of  you." 

She  drew  her  chair  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and 
looked  at  him  almost  pleadingly  ;  she  looked  at 
the  face,  which  had  once  shone  with  kindness 
for  her  ;  at  the  forehead,  which  her  hand  had 
so  often  soothed  in  hours  of  sickness  ;  at  his  hair, 
grey  in  some  places,  and  white  in  others  ;  and  she 
remembered  how  she  had  once  tried  to  count 
those  many  curls,  and  had  left  off  in  despair. 
They  were  still  there,  those  same  curls,  but  grown 
old  and  grey.  She  thought  of  the  young  work- 
man of  thirty-five  years  ago,  whose  love  and 
courage  in  an  hour  of  trouble  had  won  her 
heart,  and  when  she  spoke  again  there  were  very 
gentle  accents  in  her  voice. 

"  There  have  been  times,  Thomas,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm — "there 
have  been  times  when  I  have  loved  you  very 
dearly.     I  want  you  to  know  this,  and  to  remem- 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     203 

ber  this  when  you  are  far  away  ;  for  it  is  some- 
thing to  be  loved  tenderly,  if  only  for  a  short 
time." 

A  tear  fell  from  her  bright  eye  on  to  his  hand. 
He  looked  up,  and  seeing  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears,  he  pressed  her  hand  and  bade  her  be 
comforted.  But  even  as  he  spoke  there  was  a 
strange  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  a  troubled  ex- 
pression on  his  own  face.  Thus  they  sat  together 
in  silence. 

Then  she  spoke. 

"  There  are  some  few  treasures,  which  we  must 
divide  to-night,  Thomas.  You  were  asking  me 
the  other  day  for  the  miniature  of  your  grand- 
father. I  have  got  it  quite  safe,  together  with 
the  old  picture  of  my  mother.  All  our  little 
relics  are  in  that  box.  We  shall  see  better  if 
we  look  at  them  by  the  lamplight ;  and  when  we 
have  decided  which  are  yours  and  which  are 
mine,  I  will  set  the  supper-table,  and  fry  you 
some  bacon  and  sausages." 

Sitting  side  by  side  at  the  table,  they  took  out 
the  treasures  one   by  one  ;    and  old    memories 


204  IN    I '.I  R  I TING  M  0ODS. 

were  called  forth  at  the  sight  of  cadi  cherished 
object:  glad  me ries  and  sad  memories  curi- 
ously intermingled.  There  was  a  chain  belong- 
ing to  the  naval  captain's  father,  and  a  picture 
of  the  naval  captain  himself,  at  which  Volum- 
nia  Webster  gazed  proudly,  and  at  which 
the  clockmaker  stared  resignedly,  and  there 
were  a  few  curious  rings,  some  of  which  were 
identified  by  the  clockmaker,  and  others  by  his 
wife. 

"  See  here,  Volumnia,"  he  said  ;  "  this  is  my 
mother's  hair  in  this  quaint  locket.  I  never 
knew  my  mother,  but  I  remember  being  told 
that  they  cut  off  a  lock  of  her  hair,  as  she  lay 
dead,  and  they  placed  it  in  my  tiny  hands.  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  again." 

Then  they  came  upon  a  miniature  of  Volum- 
nia Webster,  when  she  was  a  child  of  five  years, 
and  the  clockmaker  looked  at  it  a  long  time, 
now  admiring  the  eager  little  f;u  e,  and  now  ex- 
amining with  genuine  approval  the  delicate 
workmanship  of  the  gold  setting. 

"That  is  a  beautiful  piece   ■■c.  work,"  he  said, 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     205 

enthusiastically.      "  Any     goldsmith     might  be 
proud  of  that." 

"You  always  wished  to  sell  it,"  she  said, 
sharply.     "You  have  so  little  sentiment  in  you." 

"  So  you  have  told  me  several  times,"  he  re- 
plied, without  any  sign  of  annoyance. 

"  But  this  is  the  gem  of  all,  Thomas,"  she  said, 
as  she  handed  him  the  miniature  of  a  lady. 
"  People  said  I  was  like  my  mother,  but  that  was 
a  libel  on  my  mother's  face.  When  I  was  young, 
though,  I  daresay  my  eyes  were  nearly  as  bright 
as  hers.     They  are  not  bright  now." 

The  old  man  looked  up  at  Volumnia. 

'  No,  they  are  not  bright  now,"  he  said,  criti- 
cally. 

He  laid  the  picture  aside,  without  any  further 
remark  ;  but  he  must  needs  have  noticed  that 
self-same  pleading  expression  of  countenance 
and  that  half-puzzled  look,  as  though  something 
in  life  had  troubled  the  little  lady,  and  all  her 
ingenuity  could  not  avail  to  set  her  mind  at  rest. 

"  This  is  old  Peter  Goodwin,"  said  Volumnia 
Webster,  "  he  was  my  mother's  grandfather,     I 


206  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

always  think  his  quaint  green  coat,  and  his 
brown  fiddle,  and  his  grey  wig  go  well  together. 
I  am  very  proud  of  Peter  Goodwin." 

"  You  were  always  proud  of  your  ancestors," 
growled  the  clockmaker.  "  For  my  own  part, 
I  am  quite  thankful  I  never  had  any.  But 
there,  I  do  not  grudge  them  to  you.  As  I  said 
before,  every  one  must  have  a  hobby,  and  an- 
cestors are  not  expensive,  all  things  considered." 

As  she  spoke,  she  took  from  off  the  table  the 
miniature  of  a  young  boy,  and  slipped  it  into  her 
lap,  thinking  that  she  had  been  unobserved. 

"What  are  you  hiding  from  me?"  he  asked. 
"  I  do  not  want  to  rob  you  of  your  family  treas- 
ures, and  it   is  not  kind  of  you  to  mistrust  me." 

"  It  never  even  entered  my  head,  Thomas,"  she 
said,  eagerly,  "  and  I  only  wished  to  spare  you 
pain.     If  you  must  see,  look  !  " 

\nd  she  put  the  picture  gently  in  his  hands, 
and  bent  over  him  without  speaking  a  word. 

"  We  had  not  many  reasons  to  be  proud  of  our 
descendant,  Volumnia,"  he  said,  bitterly.  '  He 
promised  well  in  the  picture,  did  he  not  ?     But 


THE   CLOCK  MAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.      207 

he  did  not  make  a  very  great  thing  of  life.  He 
had  fine  notions,  derived  from  your  ancestors, 
Volumnia.  But  it  was  not  a  very  aristocratic 
ending  to  die  in  a  drunken  brawl.  Here,  take 
your  picture.  Your  love  for  that  boy  was  so 
great  that  you  shut  me  out  in  the  cold.  All 
your  thoughts  were  for  him." 

"  Ah,  you  were  always  so  hard,"  said  the  little 
old  lady,  passionately. 

"Well,  leave  that  matter  alone  now,"  rejoined 
the  clockmaker,  banging  on  the  table  with  his  fist. 

All  at  once,  some  one  knocked  softly  at  the 
shop-door,  and  Volumnia  said  : 

"  I  think  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  shop-door." 

"  Nonsense,"  returned  her  husband.  "  Your 
ears  are  too  sharp." 

"  And  I  have  always  thought  yours  were  too 
dull,  Thomas,"  the  little  lady  replied.  '  Well, 
as  you  do  not  stir,  I  will  go  to  the  shop-door." 

When  she  opened  it,  she  found  a  man  sitting 
on  the  doorstep.  "  Did  you  knock  ?  "  she  asked, 
as  he  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

'  Yes,"    he  answered  ;    "  I  took  that   liberty. 


2o8  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

Yours  was  the  only  light   I   saw   in  the  village. 

I  have  been  walking  so  many  miles,  and  it  is 
such  a  fearful  night.  I  rested  on  your  doorstep, 
and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  knocking." 

She  be<  koned  him  into  the  shop. 

"You  are  drenched  with  rain,"  she  said, 
kindly.  "Come  into  the  kitchen,  and  you  shall 
warm  yourself,  and  be  made  welcome." 

As  he  leaned  against  the  counter,  the  rain 
trickled  down  his  face,  and  down  his  torn  coat, 
and  from  off  his  fair  moustache.  lie  was  proba- 
bly a  strolling  player,  for  he  carried  under  his 
arm  a  fiddle  and  a  bow  wrapped  in  a  green  bag, 
and  this  was  the  only  part  of  him  which  was  not 
drenched  with  rain.  He  was  tall,  and  of  slight 
build  ;  a  man  of  about  forty  years.  His  face 
was  that  of  a  sufferer  ;  but  there  was  some  kind 
of  humour  lingering  about  his  mouth,  and  about 
his  whole  bearing  there  was  a  certain  style  of 
which  poverty  had  not  been  able  to  rob  him. 

The  little  old  lady  eyed  him  curiously,  th<     _ 
kindly. 

"  You  are  in  a  sorry  plight,  stranger,"  she  said, 


THE   CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     209 

as  she  took  his  fiddle  and  laid  it  gently  on  the 
counter.  "  Ah,  do  not  be  afraid  !  this  is  not  the 
first  time  that  I  have  handled  a  fiddle.  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  called  here  for  shelter.  We 
would  not  wish  to  turn  any  one  away  on  such  a 
night  as  this." 

"  I  looked  in  at  your  window,"  he  said,  half- 
dreamily.  "  I  saw  you  bending  over  something  ; 
and  just  for  the  moment  I  almost  felt  as  if  I 
were  coming  to  some  one  I  knew.  That  made 
it  easy  for  me  to  knock." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen,  and,  turning 
to  her  husband,  she  said  : 

"Thomas,  here  is  a  stranger  who  seeks  our 
hospitality." 

"  You  are  welcome,"  said  the  clockmaker, 
who  came  towards  the  stranger.  "  You  are  wel- 
come, whoever  you  are.  But  what  the  devil  are 
you  doing  out  on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  " 

"  Some  people  have  not   any  home,"  replied 

the  fiddler,  smiling.     "  I  happen   to   be  one  of 

those  unlucky  individuals." 

The  clockmaker  laughed, 
14 


2io  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

"Rest  in  the  settle  yonder,  and  warm  your- 
self," he  said,  "  and  my  wife  will  prepare  our 
supper.  For  my  part,  I  am  hungry,  and,  you 
will  excuse  me  being  personal,  but  you  look 
starving." 

"  That's  just  what  I  am,"  replied  the  fiddler, 
sinking  back  into  the  settle.  "  IJut,  upon  my 
word,  we  homeless,  supperless  creatures  become 
accustomed  to  our  state.  We  even  learn  to  be 
merry  over  our  misfortunes.  Now,  I  ask  you  to 
look  at  my  coat.     Is  there  not  humour  in  it  ?" 

"There  are  a  good  many  holes  in  it,"  said 
Volumnia  Webster,  laughing.  "  And  it  is  as 
damp  as  it  can  be.    Take  it  off  and  let  me  dry  it." 

"  It  is  not  much  of  a  coat,"  said  the  stranger, 
brightly.  "  Now  you  would  not  believe  it — 
would  you — but  I  was  a  dandy  once  !  I  used 
to  pride  myself  on  being  well-dressed  ;  and  my 
shirt-fronts  were  something  to  behold  and  won- 
der at  !  My  boots  were  of  the  newest  fashion, 
and  the  cut  of  my  coat  was  absolutely  faultless. 
However,  that  is  all  of  the  past." 

"  Precisely,"  remarked  the   clockmaker,  who 


THE   CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     211 

had  put  on  his  spectacles  to  examine  the  new- 
comer. 

Then  he  added  : 

"  Have  you  come  a  long  way  to-night  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  frankly,  "  and  I 
have  completely  lost  my  bearings.  Not  that 
it  particularly  matters  where  I  do  go,  for  times 
are  bad  everywhere  for  us  strolling  fiddlers. 
People  like  to  listen,  but  they  do  not  like  to  pay! 
Well,  I  can  partly  sympathise  :  I  myself  never 
cared  about  paying  for  anything  ?  It  is  a  habit 
some  people  have." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Volumnia  Webster,  as  she 
cut  up  the  bacon  and  put  it  into  the  frying-pan, 
"  I  left  your  fiddle  lying  on  the  counter  ;  it  must 
be  damp.  Perhaps  you  will  fetch  it,  Thomas  ; 
and  I  will  give  it  a  good  toasting  :  not  to  scorch 
it,  but  just  to  prevent  all  chances  of  rheumatism. 
That  is  what  my  father,  the  naval  captain,  used 
to  do." 

"  Confound  the  naval  captain  !  "  growled  the 
clockmaker  half  to  himself,  as  he  rose  to  fetch 
the  fiddle, 


2i2  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"  My  father,  the  na\  al  <  aptain,"  i  ontinued  the 
little  old  lad) ,  "  was  fond  of  music,  and  he  plaj  ed 

a  little  on  the  fiddle  yonder,  that  dirt)- old  thing 
hanging  against  the  wall.  I  shall  show  it  to  you 
later  on." 

"  I  should  like  to  play  on  it,"  said  the  stranger, 
eagerly. 

"  And  so  you  shall,"  she  answered,  kindly. 
"  Thank  you,  Thomas  ;  give  the  stranger's  fid- 
dle to  me." 

She  took  it  from  its  bag,  and  warmed  it  at  a 
discreet  distance  from  the  fire  ;  she  turned  it 
over,  and  examined  it,  smiling  half-mournfully, 
as  though  sad  memories  were  forcing  themselves 
upon  her  mind. 

"  It  is  quite  a  common  instrument,"  said  the 
stranger,  who  had  been  watching  her  with  in- 
terest ;  "but  I  used  to  have  a  beautiful  one  in 
the  days  when  I  was  prosperous.  That  was  a 
good  long  time  ago  now.  I  did  not  then  think 
that  I  should  become  a  strolling  player,  making 
music  for  children  and  maidens  to  dance  to  and 
men  to  drink  to.     I  had  ambitions  then." 


THE  CLOCKMAK'ER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     213 

"  And  have  you  no  ambitions  now  ?  "  asked 
Volumnia  Webster,  taking  down  the  toasting- 
fork  from  the  right-hand  side  of  the  fireplace. 

"  Yes,"  he  laughed,  jumping  up  from  the  set- 
tle, "  my  ambition  is  to  help  you  to  toast  those 
slices  of  bread.     I  am  a  famous  toaster." 

She  put  the  fork  into  his  hand,  resigning  to 
him  without  hesitation  the  office  of  toaster. 
There  was  something  genial  about  his  manner 
which  communicated  itself  even  to  the  clock- 
maker  and  his  wife,  and  found  response  in 
them.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  drawn  to- 
wards him,  for  he  had  that  in  him  which  claimed 
and  secured  a  sympathetic  welcome.  The  little 
old  lady  saw  that  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  help 
her,  so  she  asked  him  to  place  the  chairs  to  the 
supper-table,  and  fetch  the  dish  from  off  the 
dresser. 

"  You  cannot  think  what  a  comfort  it  is  to  be 
in  this  cheerful  kitchen,"  he  said,  as  he  helped  to 
put  the  bacon  into  the  dish.  "  Only  those  who 
have  been  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
can  appreciate  the  warmth  and  glow  of  a  red 


2i4  IN   VARYING  MOOns. 

fire,  and  the  kindness  of  those  who  welcome 
wanderers  to  that  red  fire.  It  is  ever  so  long 
since  I  have  been  into  a  home.  I  had  almost 
forgotten  what  a  fireside  looked  like  ;  and  it  is 
quite  a  luxury  to  be  treated  as  one  still  having 
some  hold  on  humanity.  That  alone  is  almost 
as  good  as  the  supper  which  you  are  preparing. 
I  do  not  say  that  it  precisely  drives  away  hun- 
ger, but  it  does  drive  away  the  blues." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  three  were  seated  at  the 
table  ;  the  guest  ate  heartily  of  the  bacon  and 
sausages,  and  made  short  work  of  the  toast  and 
Dutch  cheese,  and  did  not  spare  the  home-made 
jam,  which  he  declared  was  a  relish  not  fre- 
quently finding  its  way  into  his  life. 

"  That  pot  of  jam  is  no  safer  with  me  than  it 
would  be  with  a  schoolboy,"  he  said,  turning  to 
his  hostess,  who  was  smiling  to  see  her  guest  so 
happy.  The  ciockmaker,  too,  was  amused  ;  he 
kept  the  stranger's  coffee-cup  well  filled,  and 
seemed  altogether  in  an  excellent  humour. 

"  That  puts  warmth  into  a  man,"  the  fiddler 
said,  leaning  back  contentedly  in  his  chair.     "  I 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     215 

feel  alive  again.  One  does  not  have  a  supper 
like  this  every  day,  I  can  tell  you.  The  stroll- 
ing player  must  take  what  he  can  get,  and  some- 
times he  cannot  get  anything  at  all  !  Then  he 
must  play  his  tune  to  himself,  and  take  that  for 
food  and  drink  ;  he  must  live  on  that,  or  starve 
on  that  :  and  what  do  you  think,  sir  ? — the 
sooner  he  starves  to  death  the  better  ?  " 

"  It  all  depends  upon  the  nature  of  the  person. 
The  world  might  be  the  poorer  or  the  richer  for 
his  death,"  remarked  the  clockmaker,  as  he 
poured  the  steaming  coffee  into  his  saucer  and 
blew  on  it.  "  But  so  far  as  their  own  wishes  are 
concerned,  most  people  cling  to  life.  For  my 
own  part  although  I  am  an  oldish  man,  I  wish 
to  live  as  long  as  I  can  hold  together  :  and  it 
is  not  because  I  am  particularly  happy.  Vo- 
lumnia,  my  wife,  gives  me  twenty  years  of  life, 
if  I  am  careful.  What  do  you  think  of  her 
judgment  ?  " 

The  stranger  laughed. 

"  I  should  not  say  you  were  very  strong,"  he 
answered  ;  "  but  you  probably  have  more  life  in 


2 if)  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

your  little  finger  than  I  have  in  my  whole  bod) 

And  then,  of  course,  you  have  more  chances 
of  taking  care  of  yourself  than  I  have.  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  consult  the  weather,  for  in- 
stance ;  and  you  are." 

"  Thomas  has  a  delicate  throat,"  interposed 
Volumnia  Webster  ;  "  otherwise  I  have  no  fears 
for  him.  He  is  particularly  anxious  to  live  a 
long  time  ;  for  to-morrow  he  and  I  part.  And 
such  few  years  as  may  remain  to  us,  we  shall 
spend  as  each  of  us  thinks  fit." 

"  What  an  odd  idea  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger. 

"  Not  at  all,"  remarked  the  clockmaker, 
gruffly  ;  "  the  only  odd  part  of  it  is,  that  we  did 
not  come  to  the  determination  before,  but  have 
waited  thirty-five  years  before  making  up  our 
minds." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  think  that  if  you  wait 
much  longer  it  will  be  too  late,"  suggested  the 
stranger.  "  The  time  does  slip  away  so  stealth- 
ily, does  it  not  ?" 

He  suddenly  rose  from  the  table. 

"  If    this    is  the    case,"  he    said,  "  I  have  al- 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     217 

ready  intruded  too  long.  You  cannot  want  a 
stranger  here  on  your  last  evening." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  clockmaker, 
lighting  his  pipe,  "  we  are  very  glad  to  have 
you  :  we  were  not  particularly  happy  before 
you  arrived.  Your  coming  here  has  been  a 
pleasure.  Do  not  hurry  away  ;  but  light  your 
pipe  and  draw  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  tell  us 
something  about  yourself." 

"  There  are  two  serious  obstacles  to  your  first 
invitation,"  said  the  fiddler  :  "  I  have  no  pipe 
and  no  tobacco." 

"  Here  are  both,"  replied  the  little  old  lady. 

"  And  as  for  your  third  invitation,"  continued 
the  stranger,  smiling  his  thanks  to  the  clock- 
maker's  wife,  "  I  doubt  whether  you  would  be 
particularly  pleased  with  my  history.  It  is  not 
that  of  a  hero.  Indeed  I  am  a  most  unheroic 
person.  Why,  people  said  I  killed  my  mother  ; 
but  I  myself  have  never  believed  in  the  theory 
of  broken  hearts.     Does  grief  kill  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  clockmaker,  gruffly,  "  it 
does  not  kill." 


218  W    VARYING  MOODS. 

"  yes,"  replied  Volumnia  Webster.  "  It 
brings  death  to  the  soul.  I  know  that  well,  for 
my  own  heart  has  been  dead  these  many  years. 
Our  son  struck  the  blow.  1  wonder  whether  he 
spoke  as  lightly  as  you  speak." 

The  clockmaker  frowned,  and  made  a  gesture 
of  impatience. 

"  Do  let  the  past  alone  to-night,  Volumnia," 
he  said,  sternly.  "  On  the  morrow,  when  I  leave 
you,  you  may  do  as  you  please  about  mourning 
over  a  dead  rogue.  But  now  it  would  be  more 
useful  if  you  cleared  away  the  supper  things." 

The  little  old  lady's  bright  eyes  flashed  indig- 
nantly and  her  slight  frame  trembled  with  well- 
controlled  anger;  but  she  gave  no  answer,  and 
merely  busied  herself  with  carrying  out  the 
clockmaker's  suggestion,  whilst  the  fiddler 
rested  in  the  settle,  smoking  his  pipe.  But 
when  the  clockmaker  took  up  some  watches 
which  he  had  been  repairing,  and  left  the 
kitchen,  the  fiddler  rose  to  help  her. 

"That  was  rather  rough  on  you,"  he  said, 
kindly,  ''  and  it   was  entirely  my  fault.     And  I 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     2 14 

believe  you  are  suffering.  My  mother  used  to 
suffer  like  that  when  she  pleaded  for  me  with 
my  father,  and  I  used  to  laugh.  But  that  was 
long  ago.     I  do  not  laugh  now." 

"  He  never  understood  the  boy."  Volumnia 
Webster  burst  out  passionately.  "  The  boy  took 
after  my  family  :  he  was  of  a  highly  wrought 
temperament  and  of  an  artistic  disposition,  and 
his  father,  who,  as  you  see,  came  from  a  lower 
sphere,  could  not  appreciate  a  nature  so  unlike 
his  own.  He  told  the  lad  time  after  time  that 
he  was  a  rogue  and  would  go  straight  to  the 
dogs.  Never  a  day  passed  but  that  cruel  words 
were  spoken  between  them.  He  was  capable  of 
much  good ;  he  had  generous  instincts.  He 
meant  well,  but  he  was  easily  led  away.  There 
was  one  man  of  all  men  who  dragged  him  down. 
I  would  sacrifice  all  the  remaining  years  of  my 
life  if  I  could  stand  face  to  face  with  that  man. 
It  would  be  too  merciful  to  kill  him  ;  but  I 
could  curse  him  living,  curse  him  dying,  and 
curse  him  dead.  His  name  is  in  my  heart  ;  I 
treasure  it  there  for  very  hatred." 


23o  /x  Varying  moiws. 

she  put  her  hands  over  her  face.  The  stran- 
ger seemed  lost  in  thought.  His  own  thin- 
drawn  face  wore  a  troubled  expression.  He 
held     his     pipe     listlessly     in      his      hand.         He 

shivered. 

When  at  last  she  looked  up,  he  had  regained 
his  composure. 

"  You  would  not  wonder  at  my  words,"  she- 
said,  sadly,  "  if  you  understood  how  mothers 
love  their  sons.  But  you  sons  cannot  under- 
stand :  you  laugh.  And  I  daresay  my  boy 
laughed  too.  Ah,  well,  he  was  a  handsome  lad, 
the  real  gentleman  in  manner  and  appearance. 
If  he  had  lived,  he  would  have  become  the  very 
image  of  my  father,  the  naval  captain.  That 
used  to  irritate  my  husband,  for  he  could  not 
bear  to  think  that  I  had  belonged  to  a  sphere 
utterly  different  from  his  own.  And  yet  such 
was  the  case.  In  the  old  days  when  I  lived  in 
my  father's  house,  I  was  surrounded  by  gentle- 
folk, people  of  culture  and  refinement  and 
talent.  That  all  seems  to  me  a  dream  now,  and 
I  have  to  look  at  the  fiddle  yonder  to  remember 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     ii\ 

that  these  things  have  been.  But  I  weary  you. 
What  is  all  this  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  pleasure  to  hear  you,"  the  fiddler 
said,  eagerly.  "  It  is  so  long  since  any  one  has 
thought  it  worth  while  to  talk  to  me.  As  I  told 
you  before,  it  is  a  perfect  luxury  to  be  treated 
like  a  human  being.  You  were  talking  about 
spheres  :  well,  I  have  fallen  out  of  my  original 
one — or,  to  be  rather  more  accurate,  I  was 
kicked  out  !  I  sinned  against  the  world,  and 
the  world  has  had  its  revenge  in  never  giving 
me  the  chance  of  beginning  all  over  again.  At 
first  I  thought  it  was  deuced  hard.  Now  I  have 
learnt  to  shrug  my  shoulders,  and  laugh." 

"Do  you  always  laugh?"  asked  Volumnia 
Webster,  touching  him  on  the  arm. 

He  paused. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  there  are  times  when  I 
do  not  laugh.  There  are  times,  too,  when  I 
fancy  that  if,  somewhere  or  other,  there  could 
be  spared  to  me  just  a  little  of  love  and  sympa- 
thy, out  of  the  mass  of  love  and  sympathy 
throbbing  in  the  world's  heart,  I  should  yet  try 


222  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

to  begin  all  over  again.  There  is  nothing  more 
awful  than  loneliness  of  life  and  soul  ;  nothing 
more  deadening  than  to  feel  that  no  one  cares 
whether  you  fare  ill  or  well,  whether  you  die  by 
the  wayside,  or  whether  you  live  to  reach  the 
next  village.  By  Heaven  !  When  you  and  your 
husband  talk  of  parting  on  the  morrow,  you  do 
not  know  what  you  say.  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
said  too  much.  I  have  no  right  to  act  the 
preacher  to  any  one  ;  but  there  is  irony  in  the 
whole  situation  ;  a  home,  a  red  fire,  and  every 
appearance  of  comfort — and  no  happiness  !  " 

"  To  make  happiness,"  said  Volumnia  Web- 
ster, half  to  herself,  "  sympathy  is  necessary, 
and  I  have  wanted  sympathy  all  my  life  long. 
I  have  not  been  a  happy  woman  :  the  months, 
the  years,  going  by  and  bringing  joy  to  some 
people,  never  brought  joy  to  me.  Well,  well  ; 
the  fire  is  burning  low,  stranger  :  oblige  me  by 
piling  on  the  logs  Thomas  likes  to  see  a  cheer- 
ful fire.  I  must  just  go  and  fetch  his  overcoat, 
which  wants  mending,  and  then,  perhaps,  you 
will  give  us  a  little  music  on  your  fiddle." 


THE  CLOCK  MAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     223 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  stranger,  as  he  put  on 
the  logs. 

The  black  cat  sitting  on  the  hearth  watched 
him  with  eager  green  eyes,  and  probably  com- 
ing to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a  friend  of  the 
family,  showed  approval  of  his  presence  by  an 
outburst  of  purring.  The  stranger  stroked  his 
sleek  coat,  and  then  gently  rolled  him  over  and 
played  with  him. 

"  You  will  have  a  bad  time  shortly,"  he  said 
to  the  cat,  "  for  I  am  going  to  fiddle.  Perhaps, 
though,  I  shall  charm  you,  after  the  fashion  of 
the  celebrated  Orpheus,  of  whom  you  may,  per- 
chance, have  heard." 

At  that  moment  the  clockmaker  came  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  I  have  done  all  my  work,"  he  said,  cheerily, 
"  and  I  leave  everything  in  excellent  order,  so 
that  to-morrow  I  shall  start  my  new  life  with  an 
easy  conscience.  My  wife  tells  me  you  will  give 
us  a  tune.  I  dearly  love  a  tune,  though  she  de- 
clares I  am  not  fond  of  music.  It  is  wonderful 
how  a  wife  settles  a  thing  of  that  sort.     By  the 


224  W    VARYING  MOODS. 

way,  stranger,  I  expe<  t  you  have  been  hearing 
all  about  the  naval  captain  !  I  have  never  been 
able  to  get  free  of  that  man,  though  he  died  man  j 
years  ago  !  Woe  unto  the  man  whose  wife  has 
relations  in  the  navy  !  " 

"  Or  the  army  !  "  laughed  the  fiddler,  taking 
his  fiddle  out  of  the  green  bag.  "  You  should 
be  grateful  for  small  mercies.  The  navy  may 
irritate  a  man's  throat,  but  the  army  generally 
chokes  him  !  " 

"  You  are  quite  a  puzzle  to  me,"  said  the 
clockmaker,  watching  his  guest  with  obvious  in- 
terest. "  You  have  the  bearing  and  the  speech 
of  what  people  call  a  gentleman,  and  yet  you  are 
a  strolling  fiddler,  homeless  and,  possibly, 
penniless." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interposed  the  stranger, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  I  am  the  happy  possessor  of 
exactly  fourpence  halfpenny.  Lest  you  doubt 
me,  here  they  are." 

"  I  own  that  I  am  curious  about  you,"  resumed 
the  clockmaker. 

"  I    will    satisfy    your    curiosity,"    said    the 


THE  CLOCKMAKER   AND  HIS   WIFE.     225 

stranger,  good-naturedly,  nodding  to  the  little 
old  lady  who  had  brought  her  work,  and  was 
now  sitting  in  the  settle  near  her  husband. 

He  stood  before  them,  thrumming  the  strings 
of  his  fiddle. 

"  I  can't  think  why  the  deuce  you  are  going 
to  part  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "When  you  have 
heard  my  edifying  story,  you  will  say  I  am  bad. 
But  when  I  look  at  you  both,  I  believe  you  are 
mad.  Well,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  With 
regard  to  myself,  I  have  made  a  hash  of  my  life. 
I  chose  my  own  path,  and  so  I  can  blame  no 
one  except  myself.  When  I  was  doing  penal 
servitude  for  forgery  my  mother  died,  they  said 
of  a  broken  heart.  We  have  already  discussed 
that  matter.  When  I  came  out  again,  I  thought 
I  would  try  to  raise  myself,  just  for  the  sake  of 
her  memory.  It  was  rather  late  to  think  of  that, 
was  n't  it  ?  I  looked  about  for  a  livelihood,  and, 
of  course,  I  looked  in  vain.  Then  I  remembered 
my  fiddle  ;  for  in  the  days  gone  by  I  had  been 
considered  a  brilliant  player.  I  tried  to  get 
pupils,  but  the  story  of  my  life  spread  about,  and 

15 


226  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

my  pupils  left  me.     I  played  for  a  few  weeks  in 

a  theatre  or<  lustra,  and  there,  too,  my  history 
became   known,  and   I  was  obliged  to   .  I 

played  with  a  harpist  in  the  streets  of  London. 
One  day  he  (ailed  me  a  cursed  convict,  and  re- 
fused to  work  with  me.  So  now,  turned  off  by 
every  one,  I  play  alone.  May  I  still  stay  with 
you,  or  must  I  go  ?  Most  people  tell  me  to  go. 
It  is  not  possible  to  hurt  my  feelings  now  ;  so  I 
beg  of  you  to  be  frank,  and  to  decide  just  as 
your  fancy  dictates." 

Neither  of  them  answered.  Volumnia  and 
Thomas  Webster  stared  into  the  fire  as  though 
they  were  seeing  sad  pictures  too.  There  were 
tears  in  the  little  old  lady's  eyes,  and  the  clock- 
maker  looked  distressed. 

"  Then  I  will  go,"  said  the  fiddler,  just  a  little 
sadly.  He  had  left  off  thrumming  the  strings  of 
his  fiddle. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  man,  kindly,  "  still  stay 
with  us,  you  are  our  guest  ;  we  made  you  wel- 
come, and  you  are  still  welcome.  I  only  paused 
because  your  words  made  me  think  of  my  son, 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     227 

who  was  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl  fifteen  years 
ago.  If  he  had  lived,  would  his  life  have  been 
like  yours,  I  wonder  ?  We  must  give  you  a  help- 
ing hand,  stranger,  for  his  sake.  What  do  you 
say,  Volumnia  ?  " 

'  That  would  be  my  wish,"  said  Volumnia 
Webster,  earnestly. 

The  fiddler  bent  down  and  reverently  kissed 
her  hand. 

"  I  have  not  heard  such  kind  words  for  years," 
he  said.  "  I  feel  a  different  man  for  them. 
They  will  make  everything  easier  for  me.  And 
now  for  some  music,"  he  added,  cheerily.  "  '  Fit 
audience  let  me  have,  though  few.'  I  am 
nothing  of  a  musician  now,  you  know.  The 
music  generally  required  at  country  inns  does 
not  reach  a  very  high  standard  :  it  is  not  pre- 
cisely classical.  So  do  not  be  critical.  I  think 
I  shall  play  you  a  Maypole  dance." 

Perhaps  he  was  nothing  of  a  player,  but  he 
knew  how  to  make  his  fiddle  speak  to  the  old 
couple  resting  in  the  settle.  He  had  forgotten 
them,       He  was  standing  on  the  village-green 


228  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

fiddling  for  the  Maypole  dancers.  Perhaps  he 
heard  the  village-folk  cry  "  Faster,  faster, 
fiddler  !  "  for  he  perpetually  increased  his 
speed,  and  did  not  seem  to  tire.  But  now  these 
merry  notes  died  away,  giving  place  to  a  gentle 
melody,  such  as  would  linger  in  the  listener's 
memory.  The  fiddle  sang,  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed  again. 

The  clockmaker  started  as  though  he  were 
pierced. 

"  Volumnia,"  he  whispered,  uneasily,  "  where 
have  we  heard  that  music  ?  Ah  !  I  know.  I 
have  heard  it  these  many  years,  and  sometimes, 
when  I  have  refused  to  listen,  I  have  heard  it 
all  the  same.  Why,  it  was  the  little  piece  our 
boy  wrote  for  my  birthday  greeting.  You  have 
it  safe,  Volumnia?  Tell  me,  Volumnia,  am  1 
dreaming  ? " 

"  No,  dear,  you  are  not  dreaming,"  she 
answered.  "  That  is  the  very  music  our  boy 
wrote — you  remember  how  proud  we  were  ! — 
we  had  such  hopes  for  him,  had  n't  we  ?  He 
was  so  talented  in  every  way.     Poor  Ralph  ' 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     229 

"  How  all  the  Past  returns,  Volumnia,"  he 
whispered,  "  until  everything  has  become  the 
Past  !  " 

His  head  rested  on  her  shoulder,  and  her  hand 
fondled  those  grey  curls,  fondled  so  often  in  the 
days  gone  by. 

All  unconsciously  the  stranger  had  put  them 
under  a  spell,  the  spell  of  the  Past.  They  had 
forgotten  him  and  his  personality  :  they  only 
heard  the  music. 

The  stranger  ceased  playing,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  how  the  clockmaker  rested  like  a  tired  child, 
and  how  his  wife  was  fondling  those  grey  curls. 
He  saw  that  they  had  both  forgotten  him. 

"  And  naturally  too,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  for 
I  have  no  claim  on  their  remembrance.  I  have 
intruded  on  them  long  enough  as  it  is,  and  now 
I  must  go  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  night 
and  again  take  up  my  loneliness." 

He  glanced  round  the  cosy  kitchen,  at  the 
red  fire,  at  the  quaint  clock,  at  the  copper 
warming-pan,  at  the  dresser  stocked  with  old 
china.     Everything    spoke  to   him   of  a  home. 


230  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

He  wis  glad  to  have  seen  one  again:  the 
remembrance  would  be  pleasant  to  him.  Just 
as  he  was  putting  his  fiddle  into  the  green  bag, 

the  string  broke  with  a  loud  clang,  and  Volum- 
nia  Webster  woke  from  her  reverie. 

"  Ah  !  you  there  !  "  she  said.  "  Tell  me  how 
you  knew  that  music  ;  why  did  you  choose  that 
to  play  to  us  ?  I  must  know  why  you  chose  that." 

He  wondered  at  her  eagerness  to  know. 

"  I  seem  to  be  telling  you  all  my  secrets  to- 
night," he  said,  smiling  sadly.  "  If  confession 
is  good  for  the  soul,  then  my  soul  has  gained 
something  to-night.  You  spoke  of  that  man 
who  had  dragged  your  son  down.  Your  words 
sank  deep  into  my  heart,  for  they  reminded  me 
of  what  I  had  done  in  a  similar  way  to  a  young 
fellow  as  full  of  promise  as  your  son  might  have 
been.  And  I  suppose  I  was  thinking  of  him 
when  I  played  that  melody,  for  he  wrote  it,  and 
I  was  the  first  to  play  it  to  him.  I  always 
thought  it  was  a  beautiful  melody. 

The  clockmaker  started  up,  and  put  his  hand 
roughly  on  the  stranger's  arm. 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS    WIFE.     231 

"You  knew  him,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  excitedly. 

"  Knew  him  ?  "  laughed  the  fiddler.  "  Why, 
we  were  inseparable  !  He  was  my  shadow.  I 
could  do  anything  with  him — twist  him  round 
my  finger — twirl  him  just  as  I  pleased.  He  was 
rare  good  company,  too — could  sing  a  rattling 
song  with  any  one  ;  full  of  wit  and  fun. 
Heavens  !  how  he  made  us  fellows  laugh  ! 
Why,  he  was  the  wildest  of " 

The  fiddler  stopped  suddenly  :  the  little  old 
lady  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  a  chair  glar- 
ing at  him,  just  like  a  tigress  preparing  to 
spring  ;  the  clockinaker  was  standing  a  few 
steps  off,  his  arms  tightly  folded  together,  and 
his  face  working  like  the  face  of  a  man  who  is 
trying  to  make  up  his  mind  about  something  or 
other,  trying  to  puzzle  out  some  mystery. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  both  ? "  the 
fiddler  asked,  nervously.  "  Have  I  done  any- 
thing wrong?  Have  I  said  anything  to  hurt 
your  feelings  ?  " 

A  wild  cry  broke  from  the  little  old  lady's  lips. 
She  rushed  to  the  cupboard  in  the  recess,  pulled 


032  IN   VARYING  MOODS, 

out  some  papers  and  threw  them  on  the  table. 

She  turned  them  over  with  trembling  hands,  and 
at  last  found  the  pai  ket  she  required.  She  tore 
it  open,  and  took  out  the  faded  photograph  of  a 
young  man.  She  held  it  up  for  the  fiddler  to 
see. 

"  Was  that  anything  like  your  friend  whom 
you  dragged  down  to  hell  ? "  she  hissed  out. 

The  stranger  started  back  as  though  he  had 
been  struck.     His  face  was  deadly  pale. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  cried.  "  That  was  the  very 
man — Ralph  Webster  !  " 

The  photograph  dropped  from  her  hand. 

"Then  at  last,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  we  stand 
face  to  face  with  our  son's  worst  enemy.  It  was 
worth  while  living  to  see  him  like  this  :  an  out- 
cast from  every  home  !  " 

The  stranger  bowed  his  head.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  the  words  would  not  come. 

"  Go  !  "  said  the  clockmaker,  touching  him 
roughly  on  the  shoulder,  and  pointing  to  the 
door.     "  This  is  no  resting-place  for  you." 

The   stranger     took   up   fiddle   and   bow   and 


THE  CLOCKMAKER  AND  HIS   WIFE.     233 

green  bag,  and  crept  to  the  door.  The  rain  was 
still  pelting  against  the  windows,  and  the  wind 
was  still  howling  its  dismal  story.  He  paused  just 
by  the  door,  hoping  against  all  hope  that  the 
little  old  lady  would  relent,  and  say  one  word 
of  kind  dismissal.  If  ever  a  human  face  was 
eloquent  with  pleading,  his  face  was  eloquent  at 
that  last  moment. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ? "  she  asked, 
sternly.     "  Go  before  my  tongue  is  loosened." 

He  swung  open  the  door,  went  into  the  shop, 
and  unlocked  the  shop-door,  which  banged 
mournfully  after  him  as  he  passed  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  wild  night. 

•  •••••• 

When  he  had  gone,  Volumnia  Webster's  com- 
posure broke  down,  and  she  sank  into  the  settle 
and  wept  bitterly.  The  clockmaker  bent  over 
her,  and  comforted  her,  taking  the  little  tear- 
stained  face  in  his  hands  and  kissing  it. 

"  Volumnia,"  he  whispered,  "  we  have  been 
drawn  very  near  to  each  other  to-night." 

And  she  smiled  to  hear  his  words.  She  watched 


234  IK    VARYING   MOODS. 

him  pick  up  the  photograph,  and  put  it  ba<  k  into 

the  cupboard  ;  and  she  watched  him  fix  his  pipe 
on  the   rack  which   hung  just  over  the  bellows, 

and  she  saw  him  throw  his  favourite  tools  into 
their  accustomed  drawer.  The  clock  struck 
twelve. 

"  You  have  a  long  journey  to  go  on  the  morrow, 
Thomas,"  she  said,  "  and  you  ought  to  be  get- 
ting to  rest.  I  must  stay  up  a  little  longer  to 
finish  your  overcoat." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  he  answered,  as  he  took 
the  coat  from  her  hands,  "  I  am  not  going  on  a 
journey  either  to-morrow  or  any  other  day.  I 
shall  stay  here  with  you,  Volumnia,  and  live  my 
twenty  years  here.  The  fiddler  was  right  in 
saying  that  we  were  mad.  May  I  stop,  Volum- 
nia?    I  could  not  bear  to  part  from  you  now." 

And  she  bade  him  stay  always,  promising  him 
half-humorously  that  the  naval  captain  should 
not  worry  him  more  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary. And  she  spoke  of  the  fiddler  and  his  lone- 
liness ;  she  said  she  could  never  forget  that 
pleading  look  on  his   face  as  he  stood  by  the 


THE  CLOCKMAKRR  AND  HIS   WIFE.     235 

door  waiting  for  one  kind  word  ;  she  realised 
now  that  all  his  future  hung  at  that  moment  in 
the  balance  ;  she  regretted  his  hasty  dismissal  ; 
she  recalled  the  words  he  had  spoken  about  the 
value  of  affection,  and  how  he  should  have 
wished  to  begin  all  over  again,  if  a  little  human 
sympathy  could  have  been  granted  to  him  ;  she 
forgot  that  he  was  a  man  whose  name  she  had 
been  cherishing  in  her  memory  for  very  hatred  : 
she  only  remembered  that  he  was  a  wretched 
wanderer,  whom  she  had  sent  out  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night.  All  the  pity  that  was  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart,  rose  up. 

"  Let  us  call  him  back,  Thomas,"  she  said, 
eagerly.  "  Let  us  give  him  the  helping  hand  we 
promised  him  before  we  knew  who  he  was." 

So  they  opened  the  shop-door,  and  they 
shouted  his  name — 

"Mark  Weston — Mark  Weston,  come  back  to 
us  !  We  shall  welcome  you  as  we  welcomed 
you  before.  We  have  only  forgiveness  and 
kindness  for  you.     Come  back,  Mark  Weston  !  " 

But  there  was  no  answer. 


236  IN    VARYING   M  WDS. 

"We  want  to  help  you,  Mrrk  Weston,"  I 

little  old  lady  cried.     "Com-,  t"  i  s." 

The  wind  and  the  rain  gave  re]  ly  ;  the  fiddler 
gave  none. 

"  No  one  could  hear  in  such  a  storm,"  s 
the  clockmaker.     "  It  is  of  no  use." 

They  shut  the  shop-door  reluctantly  and 
returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  trimmed  the  lamp 
and  put  it  in  the  window,  and  they  sat  talking 
over  the  fire  :  talking  about  their  young  days 
and  about  Ralph  and  the  fiddler. 

"  When  the  fiddler  sees  the  light,  he  will  come 
back,"  they  said  to  each  other. 

They  waited  until  the  day  broke,  and  the 
storm  was  hushed  in  sleep,  and  the  fire  died 
out. 

But  the  fiddler  did  not  come  back. 


SORROW  AND  JOY 

AN    ALLEGORY 


237 


SORROW  AND  JOY. 


/^OUNTLESS    years  ago,   two   sisters   were 

^^  born   into    the  world,  twin  sisters.     Their 

names  were  Sorrow  and  Joy.     Those  who  looked 

upon  them  could  hardly  distinguish  the  one  from 

the  other,  and  indeed  those  who  knew  them  best 

sometimes  called   Sorrow  by   Joy's  name,  and 

Joy  by  Sorrow's  name.     They  grew  up  loving 

each    other  with  tender   affection.     They  were 

inseparable  ;  by  day  they  ran  together  over  the 

daisied  fields,  through  the  daffodil  woods,  near 

the    sweet    brooklet,    along    the    hedge-grown 

lanes,  now  stopping  to  pick  some  tiny  fern  or 

delicate    blue    flower.      By    night    they    slept 

together,  hand  clasped  in  hand,    Sorrow's  fair 

head  resting  against  Joy's  fair  head. 

They  answered  to  each  other's  name,  and  when 

239 


IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

people  asked  for  Sorrow,  Joy  would  say  :  "  Will 
I  not  do  as  well  ?  I  'm  Joy,  you  know,  but  it  's 
all  the  same."  And  when  people  wished  to  see 
.  Sorrow  would  reply  :  "  I  "m  Sorrow,  but  it 's 
quite  the  same  thing  as  seeing  Joy  ;  for 
and  I  are  twins,  and  there  is  no  difference 
between  ns 

And  yd  there  was  a  difference  between  them  : 
a  difference  of  soul,  which  only  the  mind's  eye 
and  the  flowers  could  detect. 

When  Joy  plucked  the  flowers,  they  smiled 
and  lived,  but  when  Sorrow  touched  them,  they 
withered  in  her  hand. 

'"Never  mind!"  laughed  Joy;  "there  are 
more  yet  in  the  woods  and  meadows,  and  when 
the  next  spring  comes,  there  will  be  still  more.*' 

A  white-haired  old  man,  living  near  them, 
told  the  story  of  how  he  took  one  of  them  by 
the  hand,  thinking  he  had  chosen  Joy,  and  lo  ! 
she  had  the  soul  of  Sorrow,  although  she  seemed 
to  have  the  face  and  form  of  Joy.  And  her  soul 
had  entered  into  his  soul,  and  made  him  sad  for 
evermore. 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  241 

But  a  young  wife,  whose  life  was  troubled, 
told  the  story  of  how  she  had  deliberately 
sought  out  Sorrow  for  a  companion,  and  lo  '  she 
proved  to  be  Joy's  own  self.  And  the  soul  of 
Joy  entered  into  the  young  wife's  soul,  and  made 
her  glad  for  evermore. 

Every  one  wanted  Joy,  and  no  one  wanted 
Sorrow.  As  time  went  on  and  brought  knowl- 
edge with  it,  Sorrow  began  to  understand  this, 
and  her  eyes  became  tearful  and  her  heart 
heavy  within  her.  She  wondered  to  see  Joy 
smiling  and  laughing. 

"  Ah,  sister,"  she  said  one  day,  "  you  may 
well  smile  and  laugh,  for  the  world  loves  you, 
and  wherever  you  go,  you  are  a  welcome  guest. 
But  as  for  myself,  no  one  cares  for  me  ;  indeed, 
when  people  know  that  I  am  Sorrow,  they  turn 
aside  from  me,  and  they  close  their  doors 
against  me.     That  is  my  portion  in  life." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  other,  as  she  kissed 
Sorrow  tenderly,  "  but  you  have  forgotten  about 
that  woman  with  whom  you  stayed  for  many 
weeks.     When  you  left  her,  she  died,     People 


242  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

said  she  died  because  Sorrow  forsook  her. 
Therefore  six-  must  have  loved  Sorrow." 

But  Sorrow  shook  her  head. 

"Nay,  nay,"  she  murmured,  "no  one  loves 
Sorrow.  I  know  that  well.  People  learn  to  bear 
with  Sorrow.     That  is  all." 

The  years  passed  by.  And  Sorrow  and  Joy 
were  still  strangely  alike,  and  at  times  they 
were  still  mistaken,  the  one  for  the  other,  as  in 
the  days  of  their  childhood,  when  they  danced 
over  the  daisied  fields,  or  roamed  through  the 
daffodil  woods,  or  knelt  together  by  the  clear 
stream,  throwing  in  tiny  leaves  and  watching 
them  borne  away  by  the  current,  borne  away 
to  the  distant  sea,  where  the  streams  meet  and 
greet. 

Only  now  Sorrow  and  Joy  were  not  always 
together.  Each  had  her  work  to  do,  each  had 
her  own  life  to  live  ;  each  went  her  own  way, 
through  the  peaceful  villages,  through  the 
densely  crowded  cities.  Each  of  them  visited 
cottages,  each  of  them  visited  palaces.  Joy 
passed   through   factories,  but  Sorrow   lingered 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  243 

there.  Sorrow  dwelt  with  the  pinched  and  pov- 
erty-stricken inmates  of  the  alleys  and  courts,  in 
great  cities.  Joy  never  went  there.  Joy  played 
with  the  children  on  the  village  green ;  she 
danced  with  them  round  the  May-pole,  she 
sang  with  them  their  merry  songs.  There  was 
music  in  her  laughter,  and  there  was  sunshine 
in  her  presence,  and  that  was  what  the  world 
wanted — sunshine,  always  more  sunshine. 
Therefore  the  world  loved  Joy,  and  welcomed 
her,  and  would  not  let  her  hasten  away. 

Sometimes  Sorrow  and  Joy  met  at  the  same 
place  ;  sometimes  Sorrow  entered  at  the  moment 
when  Joy  was  taking  her  leave.  Once  Joy,  meet- 
ing her  twin  sister  at  the  door  of  the  house,  fell 
on  her  knees  and  entreated  Sorrow  not  to  visit 
that  house. 

"  Dear  sister,"  she  pleaded,  "  I  entreat  you  not 
to  put  your  foot  upon  that  threshold.  The  people 
of  this  home  are  all  dear  to  me  ;  I  left  them  with 
smiles  on  their  faces.  The  son,  the  hope  and 
pride  of  the  home,  has  come  back  to  them  from 
distant  lands.  He  is  ill,  but  there  is  every  chance 


244  IN    VARY  IXC,    MOODS. 

that  he  may  live  and  become  strong.  Sorrow, 
will  you  grant  my  recjuest?" 

And  because  Sorrow  loved  Joy,  Sorrow  did 
not  enter  that  house  ;  but  she  and  Joy  passed 
down  the  street  together,  hand  in  hand,  as  in  the 
old  days,  whilst  the  people  of  the  house  whi<  h 
Sorrow  had  not  visited,  little  knew  how  near  to 
them  Joy's  twin  sister  had  come.  Just  a  few 
steps  across  their  threshold,  and  she  would  have 
been  amongst  them,  an  unwelcome  guest. 

They  did  not  often  meet  like  this,  but  they 
often  went  to  the  same  houses  at  different 
times,  and  Sorrow  learnt  how  Joy  had  been 
welcomed,  and  Joy  learnt  how  Sorrow  had  been 
coldly  received.  Then  Joy  would  plead  for 
Sorrow  :  "  When  Sorrow  comes,  be  brave  and 
faithful,"  she  would  say.  "  If  you  are  brave  and 
faithful  you  will  find  that  you  will  be  able  to 
bear  with  Sorrow's  presence.  She  brings  with 
her  something  which  I  do  not  bring  :  she  brings 
knowledge,  to  understand  deep  mysteries,  the 
wearisome  problems  of  existence  ;  she  brings 
courage,  to  make  the  best  of  life  and  life's  oppor- 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  245 

tunities.  Those  whom  Sorrow  has  visited,  can 
best  understand  the  meaning  of  Joy." 

But  they  would  not  believe  Joy's  words  ;  they 
thought  that  she  spoke  out  of  the  fulness  of  her 
affection  for  her  twin  sister. 

One  day  Sorrow  met  Joy  outside  a  great  city. 

"  I  have  been  searching  for  you  far  and  wide," 
she  said,  as  she  took  Joy's  hand  and  put  it  to  her 
lips.  "  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  places  where  I 
have  been.  I  want  you  to  visit  the  factories 
where  young  girls  toil  year  after  year,  without 
much  hope,  without  much  comfort ;  I  want  you  to 
go  to  the  close  courts,  where  poverty  and  crime 
lurk.  I  want  you  to  smile  on  those  poor  sisters 
for  whom  the  world  has  no  pity  and  no  love.  I 
want  you  to  give  pleasure  to  those  who  have  had 
no  pleasure  for  all  these  long  years.  Take  some 
of  the  young  children  into  the  country  :  show 
them  the  beauties  of  Nature.  Let  them  wander 
through  the  daffodil  woods  which  you  and  I 
loved.  Let  them  pluck  the  yellow  flowers.  They 
will  feel  all  the  better  and  all  the  happier  for 
plucking  those  yellow  flowers.     Let  them  gather 


346  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

mosses — the  greenest  you  can  find.  Teach  them 
the  songs  of  the  birds.  They  will  carry  that 
music  in  their  hearts,  and  it  will  be  a  pure  joy 
to  them." 

"I  will  do  all  this,"  said  Joy,  eagerly,  "but 
you  must  come  too,  dear  Sorrow.  You  know 
the  country  even  better  than  I  know  it.  Nay, 
you  must  come  too." 

"  Not  so,"  answered  Sorrow,  smiling,  "  it  is 
better  that  I  should  not  go  with  you.  And 
listen,  Joy,  there  is  a  poet  who  for  many  years 
now  has  been  writing  true  words  and  beautiful 
thoughts.  You  have  never  visited  him.  Go  to 
him,  and  tell  him  you  have  come  instead  of 
Sorrow,  and  that  you  bring  with  you  success  and 
appreciation.  Tell  him  I  sent  you.  Say  farewell 
to  him  for  me." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ? "  asked  Joy, 
anxiously.     "  You  look  tired,  dear  Sorrow." 

"  I  am  going  to  wander  about,"  answered  Sor- 
row. "  The  world  has  had  too  much  of  me. 
I  will  take  shelter  with  no  one.  I  will  watch 
from  afar,  whilst  you  work  and  teach." 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  247 

"  I  teach  !  "  said  Joy,  smiling  wonderingly. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Sorrow,  "you  shall  be  a  great 
teacher  and  a  great  reformer.  The  sunshine  of 
your  presence,  the  sweet  music  of  your  voice, 
the  tender  smile  on  your  fair  face  shall  be 
powers  in  the  land.  You  shall  do  good  and 
lasting  work.  Blessed  now,  you  shall  be  tenfold 
more  blessed." 

"  And  you,  Sorrow  ? "  asked  Joy. 

But  Sorrow  had  disappeared.  She  left  the 
lights  of  the  great  city  behind  her.  She  wandered 
about  homeless.  She  hated  her  own  life,  because 
she  brought  trouble  to  those  to  whom  she  would 
fain  have  brought  pleasure.  She  felt  that  she  was 
leading  a  cruel  and  a  useless  life,  and  the  sooner 
she  died,  the  better  for  the  world. 

As  she  thus  mused  a  voice  said  to  her,  "  Who 
art  thou  ?  " 

And  she  answered,  as  though  to  herself,  u  I 
am  Sorrow's  self." 

"  Welcome,  thrice  welcome  !  "  replied  the 
voice,  "  I  have  yearned  for  thee.  It  has  seemed 
as  if  every  one  knew  thee  except  myself." 


248  in  varying  moods. 

Sorrow  looked  up  and  saw  a  man  standing 
near   her. 

"  I  am  a  painter,"  he  said.  "  They  say  I  have 
talent  and  enthusiasm,  but  that  until  I  am  \\  ise 
with  the  knowledge  which  is  born  of  Sorrow,  1 
shall  never  do  any  great  work.  I  wish  to  live  lor 
Art,  and  for  Art  alone;  therefore  I  welcome 
Sorrow.   Place  thy  hand  in  mine,  O  Sorrow." 

But  Sorrow  shook  her  head.  "  Sorrow  will 
come  to  thee  in  thy  turn,  O  painter,"  she  said. 
"  Never  seek  for  her.  She  will  come  of  her  own 
free-will  when  thou  least  awaitest  her,  and  then 
she  will  make  thee  wise  with  the  knowledge 
which  is  hers  and  hers  only." 

She  thought  of  him  as  she  wandered  on  ;  and 
the  next  morning  she  retraced  her  steps  and  un- 
perceived  entered  his  studio.  Here  she  found 
every  sign  of  luxury  and  comfort.  She  looked 
at  his  paintings,  and  recognised  in  them  unde- 
veloped power,  and  genius  trying  to  express 
itself.  His  work  was  good,  but  there  was  some- 
thing lacking  in  it  :  depth  of  meaning. 

A  child  was  playing  on  the  hearth,  waiting  no 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  t<\<) 

doubt  for  her  father  to  come  back  and  finish  the 
portrait  which  rested  against  the  easel.  She  was 
a  lovely  little  brown-haired  maiden.  Sorrow 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her,  and  then,  full  of 
remorse,  hastened  away. 

That  same  night  it  was  known  that  Sorrow 
had  visited  the  artist's  home,  for  his  youngest 
and  best-loved  child  had  died. 

Meanwhile  Joy  was  working  busily  in  the 
factories,  amongst  the  toilers  of  the  great  cities, 
amongst  the  outcasts,  amongst  the  poor  and 
wretched.  They  looked  up  from  their  work, 
from  their  poverty,  from  their  wretchedness,  and 
saw  Joy's  gracious  presence.  She  brought  hope 
into  their  lives,  and  active  sympathy.  Some  of 
their  faces  caught  the  expression  of  her  face  ; 
lips  which  had  never  learnt  to  smile,  now  learnt 
from  her.  Hardened  hearts  yielded  to  her. 
That  which  Sorrow  could  not  teach,  Joy  was 
teaching :  the  beauty  of  holiness,  the  un- 
conquerableness  of  hope,  the  loveliness  of 
truth. 

Joy  took  the  children  into  the  country,  and 


TN    VARYING  MOODS. 

they    plucked    the    daffodils    and    violets    and 
primroses,     and     they    gathered    berries    and 

mosses  and   richly  tinted  leaves.     They  listened 
to  the  singing  of  the  birds.     Their  hearts  \. 
filled  with  gratitude  and  wonder.     They  had  not 
known   how  fair  the   world  was  until  Joy  came 
amongst  them. 

Joy  visited  the  poet  and  gave  him  Sorrow's 
farewell  message.  And  because  of  Joy's  visit, 
the  poet's  words  were  spoken  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land. 

Sorrow  heard  of  Joy's  noble  work  and  blessed 
her  for  it. 

"  Let  me  ever  give  place  to  Joy,"  she  thought. 
"The  world  has  no  need  of  me.  The  fame 
which  I  have  won  for  the  artist  will  never  make 
up  to  him  for  the  loss  of  Ins  child.  His  art 
is  tenfold  richer,  but  his  life  is  tenfold  poorer." 

One  night  she  dreamed  that  she  went  to  the 
halls  of  Death,  and  asked  to  be  shown  into  the 
presence  of  the  Lord  of  Death. 

"Why  art  thou  here?"  asked  the  Lord  of 
Death,  gravely,  as  she  stood  before  him,  her  head 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  251 

bowed,  and  her  arms  folded  in  front  of  her  :  a 
sad  figure. 

"  I  have  come  to  beg  thee  to  put  thy  cold 
hand  on  me,"  she  whispered  ;  "  I  wish  to  die.  I 
wish  to  free  the  world  of  my  dark  presence.  I 
wish  my  very  name  to  be  forgotten." 

But  the  Lord  of  Death  answered  thus  :  "  Thy 
name  and  the  name  of  Joy  are  bracketed  to- 
gether. Ye  are  twin  sisters.  When  thou  diest, 
Joy  must  die  also.  Surely  thou  dost  not  wish 
her  to  die  when  she  is  doing  her  good  work. 
What  would  the  world  be  without  Joy  ?  And 
yet  if  I  lay  my  cold  hand  on  thee,  I  must  needs 
lay  it  on  Joy.  For  as  the  light  implies  the  dark- 
ness, and  as  the  day  implies  the  night,  so  Joy 
implies  Sorrow,  and  Sorrow  implies  Joy.  Thus, 
thou  seest  ye  are  inseparably  bound  up  together. 
Together  ye  came  into  the  world,  and  together 
ye  must  leave  the  world.  What  is  thy  choice, 
Sorrow  ?     Wilt  thou  live  or  die  ?  " 

"  I  will  live  !  "  cried  Sorrow,  "  so  that  Joy, 
my  twin  sister,  may  live  for  evermore.  For 
the  world  has  need  of  her  smiles,  her  laughter, 


252  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

and  all  her  loving  influence,  o  Lord  of  Death, 
this  is  my  choice — life  for  evermore." 

And  Sorrow  awoke,  remembering  her  dream. 
In  her  heart  there  was  that  strange  gladness 
which  comes  of  sacrifice.  She  sought  out  her 
sister.  She  scarcely  recognised  her,  for  there- 
was  a  beauty  on  Joy's  face  which  Sorrow  had 
never  before  seen  so  clearly  defined. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  great  work  to  do," 
whispered  Joy,  as  she  clung  close  to  Sorrow. 
"  Never  until  now  did  I  realise  the  grand  possi- 
bilities of  life.  Give  me  of  your  knowledge, 
Sorrow,  and  help  me  to  be  a  great  teacher,  a 
great  reformer,  as  you  wished  me  to  be.  O 
Sorrow,  I  have  seen  smiles  light  up  wan  faces 
of  men  and  women  and  children.  I  have  seen 
wonderful  things  happen.  Ah,  and  I  have 
heard  people  bless  Sorrow,  because  Sorrow  has 
prepared  the  way  for  Joy.  Come  back  from 
your  wanderings,  dear,  for  the  world  has  need  of 
you  as  well  as  of  me. 

"  Kiss  me,  Joy,"  said  Sorrow,  "  your  words 
comfort  me." 


SORROW  AND    JOY.  253 

And  Joy  kissed  her. 

"  You  will  never  know  death,"  said  Sorrow, 
as  she  looked  proudly  at  her  sister.  "  Other 
things  may  pass  away,  but  Joy  shall  live  for 


ever 
u 


And  you,  dear  Sorrow?"  asked  Joy. 

"  I  too  shall  live  for  ever,"  answered  Sorrow, 
gently.  "  And  Joy,  when  I  go  about  my  work, 
you  must  come  with  me,  to  soothe  the  grief  I 
bring,  and  to  kiss  away  the  tears  called  forth 
by  my  presence.  Will  you  promise  this  to  me, 
Joy  ?  " 

And  Joy  promised  it. 

Then  the  sisters  passed  on  together  in  silence. 
The  golden  sunshine  fell  on  their  faces,  and  over 
their  fair  hair.  They  seemed  wond'rously  alike, 
for  Joy  had  borrowed  some  part  of  Sorrow's  ex- 
pression, and  Sorrow's  eyes  had  caught  the  light 
in  Joy's  eyes.  And  as  in  the  old  days  when 
they  danced  over  the  daisied  fields  and  through 
the  daffodil  woods,  so  now,  no  one  looking  at 
them  could  tell  which  was  Sorrow  and  which 
was  Joy, 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON 


255 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON. 


JT  was  one  o'clock,  and  many  of  the  students 
in  the  National  Gallery  had  left  off  work, 
and  were  refreshing  themselves  with  lunch  and 
conversation.  There  was  one  old  worker  who 
had  not  stirred  from  his  place,  but  he  had  put 
down  his  brush,  and  had  taken  from  his  pocket 
a  small  book,  which  was  like  its  owner,  thin  and 
shabby  of  covering.  He  seemed  to  find  pleasure 
in  reading  it,  for  he  turned  over  its  pages  with 
all  the  tenderness  characteristic  of  one  who  loves 
what  he  reads.  Now  and  again  he  glanced  at 
his  unfinished  copy  of  the  beautiful  portrait  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  and  once  his  eyes  rested  on 
another  copy  next  to  his,  better  and  truer  than 
his  ;  and  once  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  girl's 
prune-coloured  tie  which  had  fallen  from  the 
neighbouring  easel.  After  this  he  seemed  to  be- 
17  257 


253  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

•  .ime  unconscious  of  his  surroundings,  as  uncon- 
si  ious  indeed  as  any  one  of  the  pictures  near 
him.  Any  one  might  have  been  justified  in  mis- 
taking him  for  the  portrait  of  a  man,  but  that 
his  lips  moved  ;  for  it  was  his  custom  to  read 
softly  to  himself. 

The  students  passed  back  to  their  places,  not 
troubling  to  notice  him,  because  they  knew  from 
experience  that  he  never  noticed  them,  and  that 
all  greetings  were  wasted  on  him,  and  all  words 
were  wanton  expenditure  of  breath.  They  had 
come  to  regard  him  very  much  in  the  same  way 
as  many  of  us  regard  the  wonders  of  Nature, 
without  astonishment,  without  any  questionings, 
and  often  without  any  interest.  One  girl,  a  new- 
comer, did  chance  to  say  to  her  companion  : 

"  How  ill  that  old  man  looks  !  " 

"  Oh,  he  always  looks  like  that,"  was  the 
answer.  "  You  will  soon  get  accustomed  to  him. 
Come  along  !  I  must  finish  my  '  Blind  Beggar  ' 
this  afternoon." 

In  a  few  minutes  most  of  the  workers  were 
busy  again,  although  there  were  some  who  con- 


AN  ID  YL  OF  LONDON.  259 

tinued  to  chat  quietly,  and  several  young  men 
who  seemed  reluctant  to  leave  their  girl-friends, 
and  who  were  by  no  means  encouraged  to  go  ! 
One  young  man  came  to  claim  his  book  and  pipe 
which  he  had  left  in  the  charge  of  a  bright-eyed 
girl,  who  was  copying  Sir  Joshua's  Angels.  She 
gave  him  his  treasures,  and  received  in  exchange 
a  dark-red  rose  which  she  fastened  in  her  belt  ; 
and  then  he  returned  to  his  portrait  of  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons.  But  there  was  something  in  his  discon- 
solate manner  which  made  one  suspect  that  he 
thought  less  of  Mrs.  Siddons's  beauty  than  of  the 
beauty  of  the  girl  who  was  wearing  the  dark-red 
rose  !  The  strangers,  strolling  through  the  rooms, 
stopped  now  and  again  to  peer  curiously  at  the 
students'  work.  They  were  stared  at  indignantly 
by  the  students  themselves,  but  they  made  no 
attempt  to  move  away,  and  even  ventured  some- 
times to  pass  criticisms  of  no  tender  character  on 
some  of  the  copies.  The  fierce-looking  man  who 
was  copying  "  The  Horse-Fair,"  deliberately  put 
down  his  brushes,  folded  his  arms,  and  waited 
defiantly  until  they  had   gone  by  ;  but  others, 


a6o  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

wiser  in  their  generation,  went  on  painting  calmly. 
Several  workers  were  painting  the  new  Raphael  ; 
one  of  thrm  was  a  white-haired  old  gentlewoman, 

whose  hand  was  trembling,  and  yet  skilful  still. 
M  »re  than  once  she  turned  to  give  a  few  hints 
to  the  young  girl  near  her,  who  looked  in  some 
distress  and  doubt.  Just  the  needful  help  was 
given,  and  then  the  girl  plied  her  brush  merrily, 
smiling  the  while  with  pleasure  and  gratitude. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  genial,  kindly  influence  at 
work,  a  certain  homeliness  too,  which  must  needs 
assert  itself  where  many  are  gathered  together, 
working  side  by  side.  All  made  a  harmony  :  the 
wonderful  pictures  collected  from  many  lands 
and  many  centuries,  each  with  its  meaning,  and 
its  message  from  the  past  ;  the  ever-present 
memories  of  the  painters  themselves,  who  had 
worked  and  striven  and  conquered  ;  and  the  liv- 
ing human  beings,  each  witli  his  wealth  of  earnest 
endeavour  and  hope. 

Meanwhile,  the  old  man  read  on  uninterrupt-. 
edly  until  two  hands  were  put  over  his  book, 
and  a  gentle  voice  said  : 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  261 

"  Mr.  Lindall,  you  have  had  no  lunch  again. 
Do  you  know,  I  begin  to  hate  Lucretius.  He 
always  makes  you  forget  your  food." 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  something  like 
a  smile  passed  over  his  joyless  face  when  he  saw 
Helen  Stanley  bending  over  him. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  answered,  "  you  must  not  hate 
Lucretius.  I  have  had  more  pleasant  hours  with 
him  than  with  any  living  person." 

He  rose,  and  came  forward  to  examine  her 
copy  of  Andrea  del  Sarto's  portrait. 

"  Yours  is  better  than  mine,"  he  said,  critically; 
"  in  fact,  mine  is  a  failure.  I  think  I  shall  only 
get  a  small  price  for  mine  ;  indeed,  I  doubt 
whether  I  shall  get  sufficient  to  pay  for  my 
funeral." 

"  You  speak  dismally,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"  I  missed  you  yesterday,"  he  continued,  half 
dreamily.  "  I  left  my  work,  and  I  wandered 
through  the  rooms,  and  I  did  not  even  read 
Lucretius.  Something  seemed  to  have  gone 
from  my  life  ;  at  first  I  thought  it  must  be  my 
favourite  Raphael,  or  the  Murillo,  but  it    was 


86a  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

neither  the  one  nor  the  other — it  was  you.  That 
was  strange,  was  n't  it?  But  you  know  we  get 
.11 1  ustomed  to  anything,   and   perhaps  I  should 

have  missed  you  less  the  second  day,  and  by 
the  end  of  a  week  I  should  not  have  missed 
you  at  all.     Mercifully  we  have  in  us  the  power 

of  forgetting." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  plead  for  myself,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  do  not  believe  that  you  or  any  one  could 
really  forget.  That  which  outsiders  call  forget- 
fulness  might  be  called  by  the  better  name  of 
resignation." 

"I  don't  care  about  talking  any  more  now," 
he  said,  suddenly,  and  he  went  to  his  easel  and 
worked  silently  at  his  picture  ;  and  Helen  Stan- 
ley glanced  at  him  and  thought  she  had  never 
seen  her  old  companion  look  so  forlorn  and 
desolate  as  he  did  to-day.  He  looked  as  if  no 
gentle  hand  had  ever  been  placed  on  him  in 
kindliness  and  affection,  and  that  seemed  to  her 
a  terrible  thing  ;  for  she  was  one  of  those  pre- 
historically  minded  persons  who  persist  in  be- 
lieving that  affection  is  as  needful  to  human  life 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  263 

as  rain  to  flower-life.  When  first  she  came  to 
work  at  the  Gallery — some  twelve  months  ago — 
she  had  noticed  this  old  man,  and  had  wished 
for  his  companionship  ;  she  was  herself  lonely 
and  sorrowful,  and,  although  young,  had  to 
fight  her  own  battles,  and  had  learnt  something 
of  the  difficulties  of  fighting,  and  this  had  given 
her  an  experience  beyond  her  years.  She  was 
not  more  than  twenty-four  years  of  age,  but  she 
looked  rather  older,  and  though  she  had  beauti- 
ful eyes,  full  of  meaning  and  kindness,  her 
features  were  decidedly  plain  as  well  as  unat- 
tractive. There  were  some  in  the  Gallery  who 
said  amongst  themselves  jestingly,  that  as  Mr. 
Lindall  had  waited  so  many  years  before  talk- 
ing to  any  one,  he  might  have  chosen  some  one 
better  worth  the  waiting  for  !  But  they  soon 
became  accustomed  to  seeing  Helen  Stanley  and 
Mr.  Lindall  together,  and  they  laughed  less  than 
before  ;  and  meanwhile  the  acquaintance 
ripened  into  a  sort  of  friendship,  half  sulky  on 
his  part,  and  wholly  kind  on  her  part.  He  told 
her  nothing  about  himself,  and  he  asked  nothing 


264  IN    VAR  YING  MOODS. 

aboul  herself;  for  weeks  ho  never  even  knew 
her  name  Sometimes  he  <li<l  nut  speak  at  all, 
and  the  two  friends  would  work  silently  side  b) 
side,  until  it  was  time  to  go  ;  and  then  lie  waited 
until  she  was  ready,  and  walked  with  her  a<  t 
Trafalgar  Square,  where  they  parted,  and  went 
their  own  ways. 

But  occasionally,  when  she  least  expected  it, 
he  would  speak  with  glowing  enthusiasm  on  art  ; 
then  his  eyes  seemed  to  become  bright,  and  his 
bent  figure  more  erect,  and  his  whole  bearing 
proud  and  dignified.  There  were  times,  too, 
when  he  would  speak  on  other  subjects  :  on  the 
morality  of  free-thought,  and  on  those  who  had 
died  to  vindicate  free-thought,  on  Bruno,  of 
blessed  memory,  on  him  and  scores  of  others 
too.  He  would  speak  of  the  different  schools  of 
philosophy  ;  he  would  laugh  at  himself  and  at 
all  who,  having  given  time  and  thought  to  the 
study  of  life's  complicated  problems,  had  not 
reached  one  step  farther  than  the  old-world 
thinkers.  Perhaps  he  would  quote  one  of  his 
favourite  philosophers,  and  then  suddenly  relapse 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  265 

into  silence,  returning  to  his  wonted  abstraction, 
and  to  his  indifference  to  his  surroundings. 
Helen  Stanley  had  learnt  to  understand  his 
ways,  and  to  appreciate  his  mind,  and,  without 
intruding  on  him  in  any  manner,  had  put  herself 
gently  into  his  life,  as  his  quiet  champion  and 
his  friend.  No  one,  in  her  presence,  dared 
speak  slightingly  of  the  old  man,  or  to  make  fun 
of  his  tumble-down  appearance,  or  of  his  worn- 
out  silk  hat  with  a  crack  in  the  side,  or  of  his 
rag  of  a  black  tie,  which,  together  with  his  over- 
coat, had  "  seen  better  days."  Once  she  brought 
her  needle  and  thread,  and  darned  the  torn 
sleeve  during  her  lunch-time  ;  and  though  he 
never  knew  it,  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  have 
helped  him. 

To-day  she  noticed  that  he  was  painting  badly, 
and  that  he  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  his 
work  ;  but  she  went  on  busily  with  her  own 
picture,  and  was  so  engrossed  in  it  that  she  did 
not  at  first  observe  that  he  had  packed  up  his 
brushes,  and  was  preparing  to  go  home. 

"Three  more  strokes,"  he  said,  quietly,  "and 


266  TN    VARYING  MOODS. 

you  will  have  finished  your  picture.  I  Bhall 
never  finish  mine  :  Perhaps  you  will  Ik-  good 
enough  to  set  it  right  for  me.      I  am  not  coming 

here  again.  I  don't  seem  to  have  caught  the 
true  expression  :  what  do  you  think  ?  But  I  am 
not  going  to  let  it  worry  me,  for  I  am  sure  you 
will  promise  to  do  your  best  for  me.  See,  I  will 
hand  over  these  colours  and  these  brushes  to 
you,  and  no  doubt  you  will  accept  tin- palette  as 
well.     I  have  no  further  use  for  it." 

Helen  Stanley  took  the  palette  which  he  held 
out  towards  her,  and  looked  at  him  as  though 
she  would  wish  to  question  him. 

"  It  is  very  hot  here,"  he  continued,  "  and  I 
am  going  out.     I  am  tired  of  work." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  :  '  I  should  like 
you  to  come  with  me,  if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

She  parked  up  her  things  at  once,  and  the  two 
friends  moved  slowly  away,  he  gazing  absently 
at  the  pictures,  and  she  wondering  in  her  mind 
as  to  the  meaning  of  his  strange  mood. 

When  they  were  on  the  steps  inside  the  build- 
ing, he  turned  to  Helen  Stanley  and  said  : 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  267 

"  I  should  like  to  go  back  to  the  pictures  once 
more.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  stand  amongst  them 
just  a  little  longer.  They  have  been  my  com- 
panions for  so  long,  that  they  are  almost  part  of 
myself.  I  can  close  my  eyes  and  recall  them 
faithfully.  But  I  want  to  take  a  last  look  at 
them  ;  I  want  to  feel  once  more  the  presence  of 
the  great  masters,  and  to  refresh  my  mind  with 
their  genius.  When  I  look  at  their  work,  I  think 
of  their  life,  and  can  only  wonder  at  their  death. 
It  was  so  strange  that  they  should  die." 

They  went  back  together,  and  he  took  her  to 
his  favourite  pictures,  but  remained  speechless 
before  them,  and  she  did  not  disturb  his  thoughts. 
At  last  he  said  : 

"  I  am  ready  to  go.  I  have  said  farewell  to  them 
all.  I  know  nothing  more  wonderful  than  being 
amongst  a  number  of  fine  pictures.  It  is  almost 
overwhelming.  One  expects  Nature  to  be  grand; 
but  one  does  not  expect  Man  to  be  grand." 

"You  know  we  don't  agree  there,"  she  an- 
swered. "  /  expect  everything  grand  and  great 
from  Man." 


2f>8  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

They  went  out  of  the  Gallery,  and  into  Tra- 
falgar Square.     It  was  a  si  orching  afternoon  in 

August,  but  there  was  some  cooling  comfort  in 
seeing  the  dancing  water  of  the  fountains  spark- 
ling so  brightly  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Do  you  mind  stopping  here  a  few  minutes  ?  " 
he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  sit  down  and  wat<  h. 
There  is  so  much  to  see." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  seat,  one  end  of  whirl! 
was  occupied  by  a  workman,  who  was  sleeping 
soundly,  and  snoring  too,  his  arms  folded 
tightly  together.  He  had  a  little  clay-pipe  in 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  :  it  seemed  to  be  tu< 
in  so  snugly  that  there  was  not  much  danger  of 
its  falling  to  the  ground.  At  last  Helen  spoke 
to  her  companion. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  saying  that  you  will 
not  be  able  to  finish  your  picture  ?  Perhaps  you 
are  not  well.  Indeed,  you  don't  look  well.  You 
make  me  anxious,  for  I  have  a  great  regard  for 
you." 

"  I  am  ill  and  suffering,"  he  answered,  quietly. 
"  I  thought   I  should  have  died  yesterday  ;   but 


AN  ID  YL  OF  LONDON.  269 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  live  until  I  saw  you 
again,  and  I  thought  I  would  ask  you  to  spend 
the  afternoon  with  me,  and  go  with  me  to  West- 
minster Abbey,  and  sit  with  me  in  the  Cloisters. 
I  do  not  feel  able  to  go  by  myself,  and  I  know 
of  no  one  to  ask  except  you  ;  and  I  believed  you 
would  not  refuse  me,  for  you  have  been  very 
kind  to  me.  I  do  not  quite  understand  why  you 
have  been  kind  to  me,  but  I  am  wonderfully 
grateful  to  you.  To-day  I  heard  some  one  in 
the  Gallery  say  that  you  were  plain.  I  turned 
round  and  I  said,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  /  think 
she  is  very  beautiful.'  I  think  they  laughed, 
and  that  puzzled  me  ;  for  you  have  always 
seemed  to  me  a  very  beautiful  person." 

At  that  moment  the  little  clay-pipe  fell  from  the 
workman's  mouth,  and  was  broken  into  bits.  He 
awoke  with  a  start,  gazed  stupidly  at  the  old  man 
and  his  companion,  and  at  the  broken  clay-pipe. 

"  Curse  my  luck  !  "  he  said,  yawning.  "  I  was 
fond  of  that  damned  little  pipe." 

The  old  man  drew  his  own  pipe  and  his  own 
tobacco-pouch  from  his  pocket. 


270  JN  VARYING  MOODS. 

"Take  these,  stranger,"  he  said  "I  don't 
want  them.     And  good  luck  to  you." 

The  man's  face  brightened  up  as  he  took  the 
1  Ipe  and  pouch. 

"  You  're  uncommon  kind,"  he  said.  "  Can 
\<»u  spare  them?"  he  added,  holding  them  out 
half-reluctantly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  man  ;  "  I  shall  not 
smoke  again.  You  may  as  well  have  these 
matches  too." 

The  labourer  put  them  in  his  pocket,  smiled 
his  thanks,  and  walked  some  little  distance  off  ; 
and  Helen  watched  him  examine  his  new  pipe, 
and  then  fill  it  with  tobacco  and  light  it. 

Mr.  Lindall  proposed  that  they  should  be 
getting  on  their  way  to  Westminster,  and  they 
soon  found  themselves  in  the  Abbey.  They  sat 
together  in  the  Poet's  Corner  ;  a  smile  of  quiet 
happiness  broke  over  the  old  man's  tired  face  as 
he  looked  around  and  took  in  all  the  solemn 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  resting-place  of  the 
great. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  half  to 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  271 

his  companion,  "  I  have  no  belief  of  any  kind, 
and  no  hopes  and  no  fears  ;  but  all  through  my 
life  it  has  been  a  comfort  to  me  to  sit  quietly  in 
a  church  or  a  cathedral.  The  graceful  arches, 
the  sun  shining  through  the  stained  windows, 
the  vaulted  roof,  the  noble  columns,  have  helped 
me  to  understand  the  mystery  which  all  our  books 
of  philosophy  cannot  make  clear,  though  we  bend 
over  them  year  after  year,  and  grow  old  over 
them,  old  in  age  and  in  spirit.  Though  I  my- 
self have  never  been  outwardly  a  worshipper,  I 
have  never  sat  in  a  place  of  worship  but  that, 
for  the  time  being,  I  have  felt  a  better  man.  But 
directly  the  voice  of  doctrine  or  dogma  was 
raised,  the  spell  was  broken  for  me,  and  that 
which  I  hoped  was  being  made  clear,  had  no 
further  meaning  for  me.  There  was  only  one 
voice  which  ever  helped  me,  the  voice  of  the 
organ  arousing  me,  thrilling  me,  filling  me  with 
strange  longing,  with  welcome  sadness,  with 
solemn  gladness.  I  have  always  thought  that 
music  can  give  an  answer  when  everything  else 
is.  of  no  avail.     I  do  not  know  what  you  believe.," 


272  IN    VARYING  MOODS. 

"  I  am  so  young  t<»  have  found  out,"  she  said, 
almost  pleadingly. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself,"  he  answered,  kindly. 
"  Be  brave  and  strong,  and  let  the  rest  go.  I 
should  like  to  li\e  long  enough  to  see  what  you 
will  make  of  your  life.  I  believe  you  will  never 
be  false  to  yourself  or  to  any  one.  That  is  rare. 
I  believe  you  will  not  let  any  lower  ideal  take  the 
place  of  your  high  ideal  of  what  is  beautiful  and 
noble  in  art,  in  life.  I  believe  that  you  will 
never  let  despair  get  the  upper  hand  of  you.  If 
it  does,  you  may  as  well  die  ;  yes,  you  may  as 
well.  Ami  I  entreat  you  not  to  lose  your  entire 
faith  in  humanity.  There  is  nothing  like  that  for 
withering  up  the  very  core  of  the  heart.  I  tell 
you,  humanity  and  nature  have  so  much  in  com- 
mon with  each  other,  that,  if  you  lose  your  entire 
faith  in  the  former,  you  will  lose  part  of  your 
pleasure  in  the  latter  ;  you  will  see  less  beauty 
in  the  trees,  the  flowers,  and  the  fields,  less 
grandeur  in  the  mighty  mountains  and  the  sea. 
The  seasons  will  come  and  go,  and  you  will 
scarcely  heed  their  coming  and  going:    Winter 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  273 

will  settle  over  your  soul,  just  as  it  settled  over 
mine.     And  you  see  what  I  am." 

They  had  now  passed  into  the  Cloisters,  and 
they  sat  down  in  one  of  the  recesses  of  the 
windows,  and  looked  out  upon  the  rich  plot  of 
grass  which  the  Cloisters  enclose.  There  was 
not  a  soul  there  except  themselves  :  the  cool 
and  the  quiet  and  the  beauty  of  the  spot  re- 
freshed these  pilgrims,  and  they  rested  in  calm 
enjoyment. 

Helen  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  brought  me  here,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  shall  never  grumble  now  at  not  being 
able  to  afford  a  fortnight  in  the  country.  This 
is  better  than  anything  else." 

"  It  has  always  been  my  summer  holiday  to 
come  here,"  he  said.  "  When  I  first  came  I  was 
like  you,  young  and  hopeful,  and  I  had  won- 
derful visions  of  what  I  intended  to  do  and  to 
be.  Here  it  was  I  made  a  vow  that  I  would  be- 
come a  great  painter,  and  win  for  myself  a  rest- 
ing-place in  this  very  Abbey.     There  is  humour 

in  the  situation,  is  there  not  ? " 
18 


274  W    VARYING   MOODS. 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she 
answered.  "  It  is  Dot  always  possible  for  us  to 
fulfil  all  our  ambitions.  Still,  it  is  better  to  have 
had  them,  and  failed  of  them,  than  not  to  have 
had  them  at  all." 

"Possibly,"  he  replied,  coldly.  Then  he 
added  :  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something 
about  yourself.  You  have  always  interested  me." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you  about  myself,"  she 
answered,  frankly.  "  I  am  alone  in  the  world, 
without  friends  and  without  relations.  The  very 
name  I  use  is  not  a  real  name.  I  was  a  found- 
ling. At  times  I  am  sorry  I  do  not  belong  to 
any  one,  and  at  other  times  I  am  glad.  You 
know  I  am  fond  of  books  and  of  art,  so  my  life 
is  not  altogether  empty  ;  and  I  find  my  pleasure 
in  hard  work.  When  I  saw  you  at  the  Gallery, 
1  wished  to  know  you,  and  I  asked  one  of  the 
students  who  you  were.  lie  told  me  you  were 
a  misanthrope.  Then  I  did  not  care  so  much 
about  knowing  you,  until  one  day  you  spoke  to 
me  about  my  painting,  and  that  was  the  beginning 
of  our  friendship." 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  275 

"  Forty  years  ago/'  he  said,  sadly,  "  the  friend 
of  my  boyhood  deceived  me.  I  had  not  thought 
it  possible  that  he  could  be  false  to  me.  He 
screened  himself  behind  me,  and  became  pros- 
perous and  respected,  at  the  expense  of  my  hon- 
our. I  vowed  I  would  never  again  make  a 
friend.  A  few  years  later,  when  I  was  beginning 
to  hold  up  my  head,  the  woman  whom  I  loved 
deceived  me.  Then  I  put  from  me  all  affection 
and  all  love.  Greater  natures  than  mine  are 
better  able  to  bear  these  troubles,  but  my  heart 
contracted  and  withered  up." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  many  recollections 
overpowering  him.  Then  he  went  on  telling  her 
the  history  of  his  life,  unfolding  to  her  the  story 
of  his  hopes  and  ambitions,  describing  to  her  the 
very  home  where  he  was  born,  and  the  dark-eyed 
sister  whom  he  had  loved,  and  with  whom  he  had 
played,  over  the  daisied  fields,  and  through  the 
carpeted  woods,  and  all  amongst  the  richly  tinted 
bracken.  One  day  he  was  told  she  was  dead, 
and  that  he  must  never  speak  her  name  ;  but  he 
spoke  it  all  the  day  and  all  the  night — Beryl, 


27^>  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

nothing  but  Beryl  ;  and  he  looked  for  her  in  the 

fields,  and  in  the  \\  oods,  and  amongst  the  bra<  ken. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  had  unlocked  the  casket  of 
his  heart,  closed  for  so  man)  years,  and  as  if  all 
the  memories  of  the  past  and  all  the  se<  rets  of 
his  life  were  rushing  out,  glad  to  be  free  on<  e 
more,  and  grateful  for  the  open  air  of  sympathy. 

"Beryl  was  as  swift  as  a  deer!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  You  would  have  laughed  to  see  her 
on  the  moor.  Ah  !  it  was  hard  to  give  up  all 
thoughts  of  meeting  her  again.  They  told  me  I 
should  see  her  in  heaven  ;  but  I  did  not  care 
about  heaven.  I  wanted  Beryl  on  earth,  as  I 
knew  her,  a  merry,  laughing  sister.  I  think  you 
are  right  :  we  don't  forget  ;  we  become  resigned 
in  a  dead,  dull  kind  of  way." 

Suddenly  he  said  :  "  I  don't  know  why  I  have 
told  you  all  this.  And  yet  it  has  been  such  a 
pleasure  to  me.  You  are  the  only  person  to 
whom  I  could  have  spoken  about  myself,  for  no 
one  else  but  you  would  have  cared." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  gently,  "  that  you 
made  a  mistake  in  letting  your  experiences  em- 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  277 

bitter  you  ?  Because  you  had  been  unlucky  in 
one  or  two  instances,  it  did  not  follow  that  all 
the  world  was  against  you.  Perhaps  you  un- 
consciously put  yourself  against  all  the  world, 
and  therefore  saw  every  one  in  an  un- 
favourable light.  It  seems  so  easy  to  do  that. 
Trouble  comes  to  most  people,  doesn't  it  ? — and 
your  philosophy  should  have  taught  you  to  make 
the  best  of  it.  At  least  that  is  my  notion  of  the 
value  of  philosophy." 

She  spoke  hesitatingly,  as  though  she  gave 
utterance  to  these  words  against  her  will. 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  right,  child,"  he  said, 
eagerly. 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  but  he  could  not 
keep  back  the  tears. 

"  I  have  been  such  a  lonely  old  man,"  he 
sobbed  ;  "  no  one  can  tell  what  a  lonely,  loveless 
life  mine  has  been.  If  I  were  not  so  old  and  so 
tired,  I  should  like  to  begin  all  over  again." 

He  sobbed  for  many  minutes,  and  she  did  not 
know  what  to  say  to  him  of  comfort  ;  but  she 
took    his    hand    within     her    own,    and    gently 


27»  J.\     VARYING  MOODS. 

«  aressed  it,  as  one  might  do  to  a  little  child  in 
pain.     He  looked   up  and  smiled  through   his 

tears. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  daresay  you  have  thought  me  ungrate- 
,ful.  You  mended  my  coat  for  me  one  morning, 
and  not  a  day  has  passed  but  that  I  have  looked 
at  the  darn,  and  thought  of  you.  I  liked  to  re- 
member that  you  had  done  it  for  me.  But  you 
have  done  far  more  than  this  for  me  ;  you  have 
put  some  sweetness  into  my  life.  Whatever  be- 
comes of  me  hereafter,  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
think  of  my  life  on  earth  as  anything  but  beau- 
tiful, because  you  thought  kindly  of  me,  and 
acted  kindly  for  me.  The  other  night,  when  this 
terrible  pain  came  over  me,  I  wished  you  were 
near  me  ;  I  wished  to  hear  your  voice.  There 
is  very  beautiful  music  in  your  voice." 

"  I  would  have  come  to  you  gladly,"  she  said, 
smiling  quietly  at  him.  "You  must  make  a 
promise  that  when  you  feel  ill  again,  you  will 
send  for  me.  Then  you  will  see  what  a  splendid 
nurse  I    am,  and   how  soon    you    will  become 


AN  ID  YL    OF  LONDON.  279 

strong  and  well  under  my  care,  strong  enough  to 
paint  many  more  pictures,  each  one  better  than 
the  last.     Now,  will  you  promise  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  he  raised  her  hand  rever- 
ently to  his  lips. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  for  doing  that  ? " 
he  asked,  suddenly.  "  I  should  not  like  to  vex 
you." 

"  I  am  not  vexed,"  she  answered,  kindly. 

"  Then  perhaps  I  may  kiss  it  once  more  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  and  again  he  raised  her 
hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  quietly;  "  that  was  kind 
of  you.  Do  you  see  that  broken  sun-ray  yon- 
der ?  Is  it  not  golden  ?  I  find  it  very  pleasant 
to  sit  here  ;  and  I  am  quite  happy,  and  almost 
free  from  pain.  Lately  I  have  been  troubled 
with  a  dull,  thudding  pain  near  my  heart  ;  but 
now  I  feel  so  strong,  that  I  believe  I  shall  finish 
that  Andrea  del  Sarto  after  all." 

"  Of  course  you  will,"  she  answered,  cheerily, 
"  and  I  shall  have  to  confess  that  yours  is  better 


s8o  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

than  mine  !  I  am  quite  willing  to  yield  the 
palm  to  yon." 

"  I  must  alter  the  expression  of  the  mouth," 
he  replied.  "  That  is  the  part  which  has  worried 
me.  I  don't  think  I  told  you  that  I  have  had  a 
commission  to  copy  Rembrandt's  Old  Jew.  I 
must  set  to  work  on  that  next  week." 

"  But  you  have  given  me  your  palette  and 
brushes  !  "  she  laughed. 

"  You  must  be  generous  enough  to  lend  them 
to  me,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  By  the  way,  I  intend 
to  give  you  my  books,  all  of  them.  Some  day  I 
must  show  them  to  you.  I  especially  value  my 
philosophical  books  ;  they  have  been  my  faith- 
ful companions  through  many  years.  I  believe 
you  do  not  read  Greek.  That  is  a  pity,  because 
you  would  surely  enjoy  Aristotle.  I  think  I 
must  teach  you  Greek  :  it  would  be  an  agree- 
able legacy  to  leave  you  when  1  pass  away  into 
the  Great  Silence." 

"  I  should  like  to  learn,"  she  said,  wondering 
to  hear  him  speak  so  unreservedly.  It  seemed 
as  if  some  vast  barrier  had   been   rolled  aside, 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  281 

and  as  if  she  were  getting  to  know  him  better, 
having  been  allowed  to  glance  into  his  past  life, 
to  sympathise  with  his  past  mistakes,  and  with 
the  failure  of  his  ambitions,  and  with  the  dead- 
ening of  his  heart. 

"  You  must  read  yEschylus,"  he  continued, 
enthusiastically  ;  "  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  the 
Agamemnon  will  be  an  epoch  in  your  life. 
You  will  find  that  all  these  studies  will  serve  to 
ennoble  your  art,  and  you  will  be  able  to  put 
mind  into  your  work,  and  not  merely  form  and 
colour.  Do  you  know,  I  feel  so  well,  that  I  be- 
lieve I  shall  not  only  live  to  finish  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  but  also  to  smoke  another  pipe  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  too  rash  to-day,"  she  laughed, 
"  giving  away  your  pipe  and  pouch,  your  palette 
and  brushes,  in  this  reckless  manner  !  I  must 
get  you  a  new  pipe  to-morrow.  I  wonder  you 
did  not  part  with  your  venerable  Lucretius  " 

"  That  reminds  me,"  he  said,  fumbling  in  his 
pocket  ;  "  I  think  I  have  dropped  my  Lucretius. 
I  fancy  I  left  it  somewhere  in  the  Poet's  Corner. 
It  would  grieve  me  to  lose  that  book." 


=32  JN  VARYING  MOODS. 

Let  me  go  and   look  for  it,"  she  said,  and 

she  advanced  a  few  steps  and  then  came  back  to 
him. 

You  have  been  saying  many  kind  words  to 
me,"  she  said,  as  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
"  and  I  have  not  told  you  that  I  value  your 
friendship,  and  am  grateful  to  you  for  letting 
me  be  more  than  a  mere  stranger  to  you.  I 
have  been  very  lonely  in  my  life  ;  for  I  am  not 
one  to  make  friends  easily,  and  it  has  been  a 
great  privilege  to  me  to  talk  with  you.  I  want 
you  to  know  this  ;  for  if  I  have  been  anything 
to  you,  you  have  been  a  great  deal  to  me.  I 
have  never  met  with  much  sympathy  from  those 
of  my  own  age  :  I  have  found  them  narrow  and 
unyielding,  and  they  found  me  dull  and  un- 
interesting. They  had  passed  through  few 
experiences,  and  knew  nothing  about  failure  or 
success,  and  some  of  them  did  not  even  undc-r- 
stand  the  earnestness  of  endeavour,  and  laughed 
at  me  when  I  spoke  of  a  high  ideal.  So  I  with- 
drew into  myself,  and  should  probably  have 
grown  still  more  isolated  than  I  was  before,  but 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  283 

that  I  met  you,  and,  as  time  went  on,  we  became 
friends.  I  shall  always  remember  your  teach- 
ing, and  I  will  try  to  keep  to  a  high  ideal  of  life 
and  art  and  endeavour,  and  I  will  not  let  despair 
creep  into  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  lose  my  faith 
in  humanity." 

As  she  spoke,  a  lingering  ray  of  sunshine  lit 
up  her  face  and  gently  caressed  her  soft  brown 
hair :  slight  though  her  form,  and  sombre  her 
clothes,  and  unlovely  her  features,  she  seemed  a 
gracious  presence,  because  of  her  earnestness. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "  you  rest  here 
until  I  come  back  with  your  Lucretius,  and  then 
I  think  I  must  be  getting  on  my  way  home.  But 
you  must  fix  a  time  for  our  first  Greek  lesson  ; 
for  we  must  begin  to-morrow." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  walked  in  the  Cloisters, 
holding  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  stick  under 
his  arm.  There  was  a  quiet  smile  on  his  face, 
which  was  called  forth  by  pleasant  thoughts  in 
his  mind,  and  he  did  not  look  quite  so  shrunken 
and  shrivelled  as  usual.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  ground  ;  but  he  raised  them  and  observed 


284  IN   VARYING  MOODS. 

a  white  cat  creeping  towards  him.     It  came  and 
rubbed  itself  against  his  foot,  and  purring  with 

all  its  might,  seemed  determined  to  win  some 
kind  of  notice  from  him.  The  old  man  stooped 
down  to  stroke  it,  and  was  just  touching  its 
sleek  coat,  when  he  suddenly  withdrew  his  hand, 
and  groaned  deeply.  He  struggled  to  tin 
recess,  and  sank  back.  The  st i*  k  fell  on  the 
stone  with  a  clatter,  and  the  battered  hat  rolled 
down  beside  it,  and  the  white  cat  fled  away  in 
terror  ;  but  realising  that  there  was  no  cause  for 
alarm,  it  came  back  and  crouched  near  the 
silent  figure  of  the  old  man,  watching  him  in- 
tently. Then  it  stretched  out  its  paw  and 
played  with  his  hand,  doing  its  utmost  to  coax 
him  into  a  little  fun  ;  but  he  would  not  be 
coaxed,  and  the  cat  lost  all  patience  with  him, 
and  left  him  to  himself. 


Meanwhile  Helen  Stanley  was  looking  for  the 
lost  Lucretius  in  the  Poet's  Corner.  She  found 
it  lying  near  Chaucer's  tomb,  and  was  just  going 


AN  IDYL  OF  LONDON.  285 

to  take  it  to  her  friend,  when  she  saw  the  work- 
man to  whom  they  had  spoken  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  He  recognised  her  at  once,  and  came 
towards  her. 

"  I  've  been  having  a  quiet  half-hour  here," 
he  said.  "  It  does  me  a  sight  of  good  to  sit  in 
the  Abbey."  . 

"  You  should  go  into  the  Cloisters,"  she  said, 
kindly.  "  I  have  been  sitting  there  with  my 
friend.  He  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  you 
love  this  beautiful  Abbey." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him  again,"  said  the 
workman.  "  He  had  a  kind  way  about  him, 
and  that  pipe  he  gave  me  is  an  uncommon  good 
one.  Still,  I  am  sorry  I  smashed  the  little  clay- 
pipe.  I  'd  grown  used  to  it.  I  'd  smoked  it 
ever  since  my  little  girl  died  and  left  me  alone 
in  the  world.  I  used  to  bring  my  little  girl 
here,  and  now  I  come  alone.  But  it  is  n't  the 
same  thing." 

"  No,  it  could  not  be  the  same  thing,"  said 
Helen,  gently.  "  But  you  find  some  little  com- 
fort here?" 


286  IN    VAN  VIM:   MOODS. 

"Some  little  comfort,"  he  answered.  "One 
can't  expect  much." 

They  went  together  into  the  Cloisters,  and  as 
they  came  near  the  recess  where  the  old  man 
rested,  Helen  said  : 

"Why,  he  has  fallen  asleep  !  He  must  have 
been  very  tired.  And  he  has  dropped  his  hat 
and  stick.  Thank  you.  If  you  will  put  them 
down  there,  I  will  watch  by  his  side  until  he 
wakes  up.  I  don't  suppose  he  will  sleep  for 
long." 

The  workman  stooped  down  to  pick  up  the 
hat  and  stick,  and  glanced  at  the  sleeper. 
Something  in  the  sleeper's  countenance  arrested 
bis  attention.  He  turned  to  the  girl,  and  saw 
that  she  was  watching  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  anxiously.  "  What 
is  the  matter  with  you  ? 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed  him, 
and  all  he  could  do,  ws»s  to  point  with  trem- 
bling hand  to  the  old  man. 

Helen  looked,  and  a  loud  cry  broke  from  her 
lips.     The  old  man  was  dead. 


A2h2 ;  ar  racier.    - 


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